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AUTHOR: 


PHELPS,  RUTH  SHEPARD 


TITLE: 


SKIES  ITALIAN 


PLACE: 


NNEAPOLIS 


M-^  AM.     M.       mLJ 


1910 


COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARIES 
PRESERVATION  DEPARTMENT 


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f"\^CF?NO  LlLV^,»fj» 


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Phelps,  Ruth  Shepard,  107G-1949. 

Sides  Italian;  a  little  breviary  for  travel- 
lers in  Italy,  chosen  and  arranged  by  Ruth 
Shepard  Phelps  ,..  Uinneapolis,  Brooks,  1910. 

xxii  p.,  1  1,,  368  p.   17^. 

Poems. 

"First  published  in  1910 J' 
Presentation  copy  to  Patcrno  library  vrith 
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SKIES   ITALIAN 

A  LITTLE   BREVIARY  FOR  TRAVELLERS 

IN   ITALY 


■1) 


SKIES    ITALIAN 

A    LITTLE     BREVIARY    FOR 
TRAVELLERS     IN     ITALY 


CHOSEN   AND   ARRANGED   BY 


RUTH    SHEPARD    PHELPS 


"  Ye/  do  I  sometimes  feel  a  latignishment  for 
skies  Italian  " 

Keats 


MINNEAPOLIS 
EDMUND     D.     BROOKS 

1910 


I 


D8O6. 


■Z\ 


(L 


First  Publishid  in  igio 


\ 


1 


FOREWORD 


ro  A,  u. 


Lisa's    sweet 


O  WOMAN  -  COUNTRY  I  " 
still  smile  ; 
The  tears  of  wasting  Fia  ;  the  despair 
Of  young  Ponipilia,  netted  in  foul  snare ; 
Francesca's  passion  ;  something  of  the  guile 
Of  her  who  wooed  the  Roman  by  the  Nile  ; 

Pale  Juliet's  moonlit  beauty  :  These  thy  share, 
These  s{)ells  that  like  dim  jewels  star  thy  hair, 
And  hold  a  World  thy  lover  this  long  while. 

O  Italy  I  the  heart  that  knows  not  love 

Half  finds    it,   loving    thee;    the    love-taught 

heart 
Thrills    newly    by    thy    fountains.     Ours    thou 

art 
Who  cherish  thee— it  needs  not  that  we  prove 
Us  native  to  thy  skies ;  nay,  better  be 
Of  young  lands   born,  and   born  to  yearn  for 
thee! 

Ruth  Shepard  Phelps 


Copyright    in     1908    by 
Ruth  Shepard  Phelps 


CHANSON 

A  SAINT-BLAISE,  a  la  Zuecca, 
Vous  etiez,  vous  etiez  bien  aise 
A  Saint-Blaise. 
A  Saint-Blaise,  it  la  Zuecca, 
Nous  etions  bien  la. 


Mais  de  vous  en  souvenir 

Frendrez-vous  la  peine  ? 
Mais  de  vous  en  souvenir 

Et  d'y  revenir, 

A  Saint-Blaise,  a  la  Zuecca, 
Dans  les  pres  fleuris  cueillir  la  verveine } 
A  Saint-Blaise,  a  la  Zuecca, 
Vivre  et  mourir  la  ! 

Alfred  de  Mmset 


Ill 


TO 

J.   M.   K. 

FOR     WHOSE     PLEASURING 

UPON   AN    ITALIAN  JOURNEY   ONCE 

THIS   LITTLE   BOOK 

WAS    MADE 


*•  Kennst  du  das  Land,  wo  die  Citroncn  bluhn, 
Im  dunkeln  Laub  die  Gold-Orangen  gluhn, 
Ein  sanfter  Wind  vom  blauen  Himmel  weht, 
Die  Myrte  still  und  hoch  der  Lorbeer  steht? 
Kennst  du  es  wohl  ? 

Dahin  !  Dahin  ! 
Mocht  ich  mit  dir,  o  mein  Geliebter,  ziehn  ! " 


Goethe 


CONTENTS 


**De  Gustibus — "     Robert  Browning  . 


PAGR 
I 


THE  APPROACH 

Sonnet  :   "  Happy  is  England  !     I  could  be  content. 
/ohn   Keats    ....... 

Departure.      Auguste  Barbier       .... 

Sonnet  on  approaching  Italy.     Oscar  Wilde 

**  Italy,  like  a  Dream."     George  Edward  Woodberry 

Italy.     Samuel  Rogers  ..... 


THE  NORTH 

Como  in  April.      Robert  Underwood  Johnson 
Cadenabbia.     Henry  IVadsworth  Longfellow 
The  Gardens  of  Bellaggio.     Edith  M.  Thomas     . 
Nocturne  :  Bellaggio.      Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich    . 
Stanzas  to  W.  R.  Turner,  R  A.      Robert  Southey 
The  Statue  of  St  Carlo  Borromeo.     Aubrey  de  Vere 
On  the  late  Massacre  in  Piedmont.    John  Milton 
Mother  and  Poet.     Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 
In  a  Vineyard  of  Asti.     Lloyd  Mifflin  . 
xiii 


5 

5 
6 

7 
7 


II 

12 

U 

15 
i6 

17 
17 

22 


XIV 


SKIES   ITALIAN 

THE  LIGURIAN  SHORE 


Villa  Franca.    James  Russell  Lowell    . 

Genoa.     F.  W.  Faber 

Genoa.     Aubrey  de  Vere 

Sonnet  written  in  Holy  Week  at  Genoa.     Oscar  Wilde 
Genova  Mia.     Gaetana  Passerini 

Genoa.      William  Gibson 

San  Terenzo.     Andrew  Lang       .... 
To  Shelley.       Walter  Savage  Landor    . 
Lines  written  near  Shelley's  House.     Aubrey  de  Vere 
Shelley's  House.     George  Edward  Woodberry 
After  a  Lecture  on  Shelley.     Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
Shelley's  Death.      William  Watson 


FACE 

27 
30 
32 
32 

33 
34 
34 
35 
36 
38 
39 
41 


THE  LOMBARD  PLAIN 

Lines  written  among  the  Euganean  Hills.  Percy  Bysshe 
Shelley  ........ 

The  Cathedral  of  Milan      Aubrey  de  J 'ere 

The  Last  Supper,  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  William 
Wordsworth  ....... 

The  Patriot.     Robert  Browning 

The  Forced  Recruit.     Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

Sirmio  :  Lago  di  Garda.     Catullus       .... 

Peschiera.     Arthur  Hugh  Clough         .... 

The  Daisy.     Alfred  Tennyson 


VENETL\ 

At  Verona.     Oscar  Wilde     .... 
Browning  at  Asolo      Robert  Underwood  Johnson 


45 
56 

57 

58 

59 
61 

62 
63 


CONTENTS 

Dawn  in  Arqua.  Lloyd  Mifflin  .... 
'♦ExLibris."  Arthur  Upsoft  .... 
Petrarch's  Tomb.  Lord  Byron  .... 
Written  in  Petrarch's  House.  Lord  Houghton 
To  the  River  Po,  on  quitting  Laura.  Francesco  Petrarca 
Stanzas  to  the  Po.  Lord  Byron  .... 
Dante.      Giovanni  Boccaccio  .... 

Beatrice.     Henry  Sewell  Stokes    .... 
On   the  Tomb   of  Guidarello   Guidarelli  at   Ravenna 

Walter  Wilson  Greg 

Venice.     Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 
Venice.     Graf  von  Platen    ..... 
Goldoni.      Robert  Broxvning        .... 
A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's.     Robert  Browning 


A  Ballade  of  Forgotten  Tunes.     A.  Mary  F.  Robinson     85 


71 
71 


An  old  Venetian  Wine-Glass.     Lloyd  Mifflin 

Venice  by  Day.     Aubrey  de  Vere 

Feeding  the  Pigeons.      Lloyd  Mifflin  . 

Venice  in  the  Evening.     Aubrey  de  Vere 

In  Venice.     Cora  Kennedy  Aitken 

WTien  through  the  Piazretta.      Thovias  Moore 

The  Piazza  of  St  Mark  at  Midnight.      7'homas  Bailey 

Aldrich  ..... 

Venetian  Nocturne.     A.  Mary  F.  Robinson 
Row  gently  here.      Thomas  Moore 
Venice.      Thomas  Buchanan  Read 
Venice.     Alfred  de  Musset    . 
In  a  Gondola.     Robert  Browning 
The  Rezzonico  Palace.     Arthur  Upson 
Saint  Christopher.      William  Dean  Ho^vells 
Rivers  of  Venice.     Clattdian 


XV 

PAGE 

73 
73 

74 

75 
76 

76 

78 

79 

80 

80 
81 
81 
82 


86 

87 

87 
88 

89 
90 

91 
92 

93 
93 
98 

99 
108 

108 

no 


XVI 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


CONTENTS 


PACK 

Lido.     Lord  Houghton  .  ,         .no 

The  Jews*  Cemetery  on   the   Lido.    John   Addington 

Symonds         .  .         .112 

The  Madonna  deir  Acqua.    John  Ruskin  113 

Torcello.     Helen  Hunt  Jackson 113 

The   last    Doge    to    Fettered    \>nice.      Eugene    Lee- 
Hamilton      114 

On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic.      William 

Wordsworth  .  .  .  .         .  .115 

At  Venice.     Eugene  Lee  Hamilton  .  •    J'S 

\'enice.    John  Addington  Symonds       .         .         .         .116 


EMILIA  AND  THE  MARCHES 

Implora  Pace.     Charles  Lotin  Hildreth        .  .119 

To  the  Duke  Alfonso,  asking  to  be  liberated.      Tonjuato 


Tasso    ...... 

Prison  of  Tasso.     Lord  Byron 
To  Scipio  Gonzaga.      Torquato  Tasso  . 
The  Guardian  Angel.     Robert  Bro^vning 
At  Fano.     Sir  Rennell  Rodd 


IN  TUSCANY 

"Now  marble  Apennines  shining."      George  Edward 

Woodberry    ..... 
By  the  Arno.     Oscar  Wilde 

A  Song  of  Arno.     Grace  Elleiy  Channing-Stetsoh 
Approach  to  Florence.     L.ord  Byron   . 
Florentine  May.     A.  Maiy  F.  Robinson 
To  L.  T.  in  Florence      Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 


119 
120 
122 
123 
125 


131 

131 
132 

133 
133 
135 


XVII 

PAGE 


Florence.     Piero  de'  Medici  .... 

At  Florence.      William  Wordsworth 

The    Old    Bridge    at    Florence.      Henry    Wadsworth 

Longfellow     ....... 

Giotto's  Campanile.     Aubrey  de  Vere 

Giotto's  Tower.     Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  . 

Santa  Croce.     Lord  Byron 

From   "Casa  Guidi  Windows."      Elizabeth   Barrett 

Browning      ....... 

Casa  Guidi  Windows.     Bayard  Taylor 

E.  B.  B.    James  Thomson 

Old  Pictures  in  Florence.     Robert  Browning 

On  a  Portrait  of  Dante   by  Giotto.      James   Russell 

Lowell  ....... 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante.      Thomas  William  Parsons  . 

The  Pathmaster.     Arthur  Upson 

On   the  Fly-leaf  of  Dante's  "Vita  Nuova."     Eugene 

Lee- Hamilton         ...... 

To  Guido  Cavalcanti.     Dante  Alighieri 

Beata  Beatrix.     Samuel  Waddington     . 

Andrea  del  Sarto.     Robert  Browning  . 

On  the  Medusa  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci.     Percy  Bysshe 

Shelley • 

Era  Lippo  Lippi.     Robert  Browning    . 

The  Madonna.     Lloyd  Mifflin     .... 

Spring,  by  Sandro  Botticelli.     Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 

Masaccio.    James  Russell  Lowell 

Uccello.     Sarah  D.   Clarke  .... 

Pictor  Ignotus.     Robert  Browning 

The  Campagna  of  Florence.     Samuel  Rogers 


135 
136 

136 

137 
137 
138 

140 

143 

144 

145 

147 
148 

150 

153 
153* 
154 
155 

164 

165 
179 
179 
180 
181 

183 
186 


' 


The  Garden  of  Boccaccio. 
b 


Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  190 


xviii         SKIES   ITALIAN 


PACK 
196 


Fiesolan  Idyl.      IVaiier  Savage  Landor 

Evening  at  Fiesole.      Walter  Savage  Landor 

The  Fig-trees  of  Gheraidesca.      Walter  Savage  Landor  197 

Michael  Angelo  at  Forty-seven.     Lloyd  Mifflin 

To  Vernon  Lee.     Amy  Levy 

Castello.     A.  Mary  F.  Robinson 

After  Reading  *'An  Italian  Garden."      Arthur 

The  White  Peacock.     William  Sharp 

At  Vallombrosa.      William  Wordsworth 

Lastra  a  Signa.     Sarah  D.  Clarke 

Etruscan  Tombs.     A.  Mary  F.  Robinson     . 

An  Etruscan  Ring.    /.    W.  Mackail 

A  Tuscan  Lachrymatory.     Lloyd  Mifflin      . 

Campiello  Barbero.     A,  Mary  F.  Robinson 

Pisa.  William  Gibson  .... 
The  Campo  Santo  at  Pisa.  Aubrey  de  Vere 
Evening:  Ponte  a  Mare,  Pisa.  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  213 
The  Boat  on  the  Serchio.  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  .214 
Siena.  George  Edward  Woodberry  .  .  .  .218 
July  in  Siena.  Folgore  da  San  Gemignano  .  .  .222 
Pia  dei  Tolomei  to  Love  and  Death.  Eugene  Lee- 
Hamilton       222 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind.     Percy  Bysshe  Shelley     .         .  223 


.  198 
.  199 
.  199 
Upson  200 
.  201 
.  203 
.  205 
.  206 
.  208 
.  209 
.  210 
.  211 
.  212 


UMBRIA 

Umbria.     Laurence  Binyon 229 

"  Per  gl'  Occhi  almeno  non  v'e  Clausura."  E.  H.  Pember  231 
The  Unknown  Madonna.  Sir  Rennell  Rodd  .  .  235 
From  Perugia,  [ohn  Greenleaf  Whittier  .  .  .236 
The  Sermon  of  St  Francis.  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  240 


CONTENTS 

An  Episode.    John  Addington  Symonds 

Luca  Signorelli  to  his  Son.     Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 


XIX 

PACK 
.    242 

.    243 


THE  ROMAN  CAMPAGNA 

Rome  Unvisited.     Oscar  Wilde 247 

Roman  May.     Arthur  Symons 248 

Rome.     Lord  Byron 248 

Rome.     Baldassare  Castiglione 249 

Near  Rome,  in  Sight  of  St  Peter's.  William  Wordsworth  250 
St  Peter's  by  Moonlight.     Aubrey  de  Vere  .         .251 

Sonnet  on  hearing  the  Dies  Ine.  Oscar  Wilde  .  .251 
The  Sistine  Chapel.     Aubrey  de  Vere  .         .         .252 

The  Bishop  orders  his  Tomb  at  St  Praxed's  Church. 

Robert  Browning 253 

The  Lachrymatory.  Charles  Tennyson  Turner  .  .  257 
On  Lucretia  Borgia's  Hair.  Walter  Savage  Landor  .  258 
Villa  Borghese.     Arthur  Symons  ....  258 

An  Inscription  in  Rome.  Richard  Watson  Gilder  .  259 
The  Name  writ  in  Water.  Robert  Underwood  Johnson  259 
The  Grave  of  Keats.  Oscar  Wilde  .  .  .  -260 
The  Grave  of  Shelley.  Oscar  Wilde  .  .  •  .261 
Sonnet:   "Among  the  cypresses  young  Shelley  lies." 

Nina  Morais  Cohen 262 

Three  Flowers.  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  .  .  .262 
Sant'  Onofrio.  Thomas  D'Arcy  McGee  .  .  .263 
Hills  of  Rome.  Joachim  du  Bellay  .  ...  265 
The  Capitol  :  Tasso's  Coronation.  Felicia  Hemans  .  265 
The  Philosophic  Flight.  Giordano  Bruno  .  .  .267 
The  Ruins  of  Rome.  Joachim  du  Bellay  .  .  .268 
The  Coliseum.     Lord  Byron 270 


XX 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


The  Coliseum.     Edgar  Allan  Poe 

Roman  Baths.     Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

Birds  in  the  Baths  of  Diocletian.     Aubrey  de  Vere 

The  Arch  of  Titus.     Aubrey  de  Vere    . 

The  Appian  Way.     Aubrey  de  Vere     . 

The  Tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella.  Mrs  R.  H.  Stoddard 

Grotto  of  Egeria.     Lord  Byron    .... 

Ruins  of  Cornelia's  House.     Aubrey  de  Vere 

The  Campagna  seen  from  St  John  Lateran.     Aubrey 

Vere 

Two  in  the  Campagna.     Robert  Browning 

Spring  on  the  Alban  Hills.     Alice  Meynell 

Nemi.     Samuel  Waddington 

Monte  Cassino.     Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow   . 

Love  among  the  Ruins.     Robert  Browning 

At  Tiber  Mouth.     Sir  Rennell  Rodd    . 

Roman  Villeggiatura.     Silius  Ltalicus 

Tivoli.     Felicia  Hemans 

The  City  of  my  Love.    Julia  Ward  Howe 

Rome.     Bessie  Rayner  Parkes 

The  Fountain  of  Trevi.     Bayard  Taylor 

Rome.     Arthur  Symons 


I'AGB 

.  273 

.  275 

•  275 
.  276 

•  277 
.  277 
.  278 
.  280 

de 

.  280 
.  281 
.  283 
.  2S4 
.  285 
.  288 
.  291 

.  295 

.  295 

.  297 

•  299 
.  302 

•  303 


THE  SOUTH 

Capua.    John  Nichol  .......  307 

Naples.      William  Gibson 308 

Stanzas  written  in  Dejection,  near  Naples.   Percy  Bysshe 

Shelley 309 

The  Sibyl's  Cave  at  Cumae.     Aubrey  de  Vere      .         '311 

Virgil's  Tomb.      William  Gibson  .         .         .         •   311 

Virgil's  Tomb.     Robert  Cameron  Rogers       .         .         .312 


CONTENTS 

Vesuvius.     Richard  Chevenix  Trench  . 

Vesuvius.      William  Gibson 

Pompeii.    John  Bruce  Norton 

Pompeii.     Thomas  Gold  Appleton 

Pompeii.     William  Gibson  .... 

Sorrento.     Frederick  Locker- Lampson 

Sorrento.      Thomas  William  Parsons  . 

Written  in  Tasso's  House  at  Sorrento.     Aubrey  de 

Sorrento.      William  Wetmore  Story      . 

The  Englishman  in  Italy.     Robert  Browning 

Amalfi.     Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

Drifting.      Thomas  Buchanan  Read     . 

Capri.     Alfred  Austin  .         .         .         • 

The  Azure  Grotto.     Charles  D,  Bell  . 

Inarim^.     Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow     . 

Pjestum.     Christopher  Pearce  Cranch  . 

Mare  Mediterraneum.    John  Nichol     . 

Taormina.     George  Edward  Woodberry 

Etna.     Matthew  Arnold       .... 

Arethusa.     Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  . 


Vere 


MEDITATIONS 

Birthright.     Maud  Caldwell  Perry 

To  Italy.     Anonymous 

To  Italy.     Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

To  Italy.     Giacomo  Leopardi 

To  Italy.     Pietro  Bembo 

Citta  d'ltalia.     Anonymous 

Love  and  Italy.     Robert  Underwood  Johnson 


XXI 

PAGE 

313 

315 

315 
316 

316 

317 
318 

319 
320 

321 
330 

334 

337 

338 

339 

341 

342 

344 

345 

347 


353 
354 
354 
355 
356 
357 
358 


11 


XXll 


SKIES    ITALIAN 

ADIEU  ! 


PAGB 


In  Italy.     Lloyd  Mifflin ^g, 

Lines  on  Leaving  Italy.     Adam  Got t lob  OehUnschlager  361 
L' Adieu.     Auguste  Barbier         .... 
Farewell  to  Italy.      Walter  Savage  Landor  . 
Farewell  to  the  Land  of  the  South.     Anna  Jameson 
"  Italia,  io  ti  saluto."     Christina  G.  Rossetti 


362 

363 
364 
36s 


Acknowledgment 


367 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


\ 


"DE  GUSTIBUS— " 

YOUR  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees, 
(If  our  loves  remain) 

In  an  English  lane, 
By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel-coppice — 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please, 

Making  love,  say, — 

The  happier  they ! 
Draw  yourself  up  from  the  light  of  the  moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon. 

With  the  beanflower's  boon. 

And  the  blackbird's  tune. 

And  May,  and  June  ! 


What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world 

Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurled. 

In  a  gash  of  the  wind-grieved  Apennine. 

Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine, 

(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 

O'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands. 

And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands) — 

In  a  sea-side  house  to  the  farther  South, 

Where  the  baked  cicala  dies  of  drouth. 

And  one  sharp  tree — 'tis  a  cypress — stands, 

By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted. 

Rough  iron-spiked,  ripe  fruit-o'ercrusted. 

My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands 

To  the  water's  edge.     For,  what  expands 

A  X 


SKIES   ITALIAN 

Before  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 
Blue  breadth  of  sea  without  a  break  ? 
While,  in  the  house,  forever  crumbles 
Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls, 
From  blisters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 
A  girl  bare-footed  brings,  and  tumbles 
Down  on  the  pavement,  green-flesh  melons. 
And  says  there's  news  to-day — the  king 
Was  shot  at,  touched  in  the  liver-wing, 
Goes  with  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling  : 
— She  hopes  they  have  not  caught  the  felons. 

Italy,  my  Italy ! 
Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me— 

(When  fortune's  malice 

Lost  her,  Calais) 
Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it,  "  Italy." 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she  : 
So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be  I 

Roheri  Browning 


THE  APPROACH 


-V 


IM 


THE   APPROACH 

SONNET 

IT  APPY  is  England!     I  could  be  content 
i  To  see  no  other  verdure  than  its  own  ; 

To  feel  no  other  breezes  than  are  blown 
Through  its  tall  woods  with  high  romances  blent : 
Yet  do  I  sometimes  feel  a  languishment 

For  skies  Italian,  and  an  inward  groan 

To  sit  upon  an  Alp  as  on  a  throne, 
And  half  forget  what  world  or  worldling  meant. 
Happy  is  England,  sweet  her  artless  daughters  ; 

Enough  their  simple  loveliness  for  me, 
Enough  their  whitest  arms  in  silence  clinging: 

Yet  do  I  often  warmly  burn  to  see 
Beauties  of  deeper  glance,  and  hear  their  singing. 
And  Hoat  with  them  about  the  summer  waters. 

John  Keats 


DEPARTURE 

VAINLY  the  Alps  their  shoulders  interpose. 
And  their  blue  glaciers  seamed    with    dark 

crevasse. 
And   peaks  from  which,  its  entrails  torn,  yon 

mass 
Of  storm-cloud  like  a  ragged  banner  blows. 
Let  fall,  let  fall  on  me  those  perilous  snows, 


6 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


Let  the  wild  waters  break  above  the  pass, 
And  from  their  hundred  caverns  bright  as  glass 

Come  winds  to  tear  me,  like  fierce  steel-girt  foes ! 

I  go,  ye  cannot  stay  me  !     For  I  hope 

To  tread  the  streets  of  Florence,  and  to  view 
Those  Sabine  Hills  the  Roman  poet  knew; 
To  see  the  sun  dance  on  Sorrento's  bay. 

And,  stretched  ujxm  some  southern  seaward  slope, 
Drink  thy  sweet  air,  ()  Isle  of  Ischia  ! 

Augusle  Barhicrf 

tr.  Ruth  Shepard  Phelps 


v: 


SONNET   ON   APPROACHING    ITALY 

I   REACHED  the   Alps;  the   soul    within    me 
burned, 
Italia,  my  Italia,  at  thy  name  : 
And  when  from  out  the  mountain's  heart  I  came 
And  saw  the  land  for  which  my  life  had  yearned, 
I    laughed   as   one    who  some    great    prize    had 
earned :    n^ 
And  musing  on  the  story  of  thy  fame 
I  watched  the  day,  till  marked  with  wounds  of 
flame 
The  turquoise  sky  to  burnished  gold  was  turned. 
The  pine-trees  waved  as  waves  a  woman's  hair. 

And  in  the  orchards  every  twining  spray 
Was  breakhig  into  flakes  of  blossoming  foam  : 
But  when  I  knew  that  far  away  at  Rome 

In  evil  bonds  a  second  Peter  lay, 
I  wept  to  see  the  land  so  very  fair. 

Oscar  JVilde 


'^ 


/ 


ITALY  7 

"ITALY,   LIKE   A    DREAM"* 

ITALY,  like  a  dream. 
Unfolds  before  my  eyes ;    yC 
But  another  fairer  dream 

Behind  me  lies ; 
Could  I  turn  from  the  dream  that  is 

To  where  that  first  light  flies — 
Could  I  turn  from  the  dream  that  was — 
In  a  dream  life  dies  ! 

One  masters  the  spirit  of  life 
Throujrh  love  of  life  to  be  ; 
I  am  not  master,  O  Love, — 

Thou  slayest  the  will  in  me ! 
Give  me  the  dream  that  is, — 

Earth  like  heaven  to  see ; 
Or  grant  the  dream  that  was, — 
Love's  immortality  ! 

George  Edward  Woodherry 
[Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Messrs  Macmillan] 

ITALY 

AM  I  in  Italy  ?     Is  this  the  Mincius  ? 
Are  those  the  distant  turrets  of  Verona  ? 
And  shall  I  sup  where  Juliet  at  the  Masque 
First  saw  and  loved,  and  now  by  him  who  came 
That  night  a  stranger,  sleeps  from  age  to  age  ? 
Such  questions  hourly  do  I  ask  myself; 
And  not  a  stone,  in  a  cross-way,  inscribed 
"To  Mantua"— "To  Ferrara  "— but  excites 
Surprise,  and  doubt,  and  self-congratulation. 
O  Italy,  how  beautiful  thou  art  I 
Yet  I  could  weep— for  thou  art  lying,  alas, 


8 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


Low  in  the  dust ;  and  we  admire  thee  now 

As  we  admire  the  beautiful  in  death. 

Thine  was  a  dangerous  gift,  when  thou  wast  born, 

The  gift  of  beauty.     Would  thou  hadst  it  not ; 

Or  wert  as  once,  awing  the  caitiffs  vile 

That  now  beset  thee,  making  thee  their  slave  ! 

Would  they  had  loved  thee  less,  or  feared  thee 

more ! 
— But    why    despair?      Twice   hast    thou    lived 

already ; 
Twice  shone  among  the  nations  of  the  world, 
As  the  sun  shines  among  the  lesser  lights 
Of  heaven ;    and    shalt   again.     The    hour    shall 

come. 
When  they  who  think  to  bind  the  ethereal  spirit, 
Who,  like  the  eagle  cowering  o'er  his  prey. 
Watch  with  quick  eye,  and  strike  and  strike  again 
If  but  a  sinew  vibrate,  shall  confess 
Their  wisdom  folly.     Even  now  the  flame 
Bursts  forth  where  once  it  burnt  so  gloriously, 
And,  dying,  left  a  splendour  like  the  day. 
That  like  the  day  diffused  itself,  and  still 
Blesses  the  earth — the  light  of  genius,  virtue, 
Greatness  in  thought  and  act,  contempt  of  death, 
God-like  example.     Echoes  that  have  slept 
Since  Athens,  Lacedaemon,  were  Themselves, 
Since  men  invoked  "  By  Those  in  Marathon  I  " 
Awake  along  the  .Egean  ;  and  the  dead. 
They  of  that  sacred  shore,  have  heard  the  call. 
And  through  the  ranks,  from  wing  to  wing,  are 

seen 
Moving  as  once  they  were — instead  of  rage 
Breathing  deliberate  valour. 

Samuel  Rogers 

o 


THE  NORTH 


% 


THE    NORTH 

COMO    IN    APRIL 

THE   wind   is    Winter,   though   the    sun    be 
Spring ; 
The  icy  rills  have  scarce  begun  to  flow  ; 
The  birds  unconfidently  fly  and  sing. 

As  on  the  land  once  fell  the  northern  foe, 

The  hostile  mountains  from  the  passes  fling 
Their  vandal  blasts  upon  the  lake  below. 

Not  yet  the  round  clouds  of  the  Maytime  cling 

Above  the  world's  blue  wonder's  curving  show, 
And  tempt  to  linger  with  their  lingering. 

Yet  doth  each  slope  a  vernal  promise  know : 

See,  mounting  yonder,  white  as  angel's  wing, 
A  snow  of  bloom  to  meet  the  bloom  of  snow. 


Love,  need  we  more  than  our  imagining 

To  make  the  whole  year  May  ?     What  though 
The  wind  be  W^inter  if  the  heart  be  Spring  ? 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson 


II 


x* 


12  SKIES   ITALIAN 


CADENABBIA 

(^Lake   of  Coma) 

NO  sound  of  wheels  or  hoof-beat  breaks 
The  silence  of  the  summer  day, 
As  by  the  loveliest  of  all  lakes 
I  while  the  idle  hours  away. 

I  pace  the  leafy  colonnade 

Where  level  branches  of  the  plane 

Above  me  weave  a  roof  of  shade 
Impervious  to  the  sun  and  rain. 

At  times  a  sudden  rush  of  air 

Flutters  the  lazy  leaves  o'erhead, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine  toss  and  flare 
Like  torches  down  the  path  I  tread. 

By  Somariva's  garden  gate 

I  make  the  marble  stairs  my  seat, 

And  hear  the  water,  as  I  wait, 

Lapping  the  steps  beneath  my  feet. 

The  undulation  sinks  and  swells 

Along  the  stony  parapets, 
And  far  away  the  floating  bells 

Tinkle  upon  the  fisher's  nets. 

Silent  and  slow,  by  tower  and  town 
The  freighted  barges  come  and  go, 

Their  pendent  shadows  gliding  down 
By  town  and  tower  submerged  below. 


I 


GARDENS   OF   BELLAGGIO  13 

The  hills  sweep  upward  from  the  shore, 
With  villas  scattered  one  by  one 

Upon  their  wooded  spurs,  and  lower 
Bellaggio  blazing  in  the  sun. 

And  dimly  seen,  a  tangled  mass 

Of  walls  and  woods,  of  light  and  shade, 

Stands  beckoning  up  the  Stelvio  Pass 
Varenna  with  its  white  cascade. 


I  ask  myself,  Is  this  a  dream  } 

Will  it  all  vanish  into  air  } 
Is  there  a  land  of  such  supreme 

And  perfect  beauty  anywhere  ? 

Sweet  vision  !     Do  not  fade  away  : 
Linger  until  my  heart  shall  take 

Into  itself  the  summer  day. 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  lake. 

Linger  until  upon  my  brain 

Is  stamped  an  image  of  the  scene, 

Then  fade  into  the  air  again, 

And  be  as  if  thou  hadst  not  been. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


THE   GARDENS   OF   BELLAGGIO 

THEIR  gardens  of  enchantment  lean 
So  wooingly  along  the  lake  ! 
A  Soul  of  Fragrance — all  unseen- 
Steals  forth,  its  captive  souls  to  take  ! 


m 


tl 


14  SKIES    ITALIAN 

So  wooingly  those  gardens  lie 

Above  the  dreaming,  moonlit  lake — 

And  walking  there,  in  days  gone  by, 

I  lost  my  heart— and  gained  heart-ache. 

Oh,  did  you  pass  their  open  gate  ? 

Or  did  you  fondly  pass  therethrough  ? 
Say,  did  you  tarry  there  till  late— 

And  did  my  heart  not  speak  to  you  ? 

Edilh  M.  Thomas 


li 


NOCTURNE 

(Bcllaggio) 

LT  P  to  her  chamber  window 
y  A  slight  wire  trellis  goes, 
And  up  this  Romeo's  ladder 
Clambers  a  bold  white  rose. 

1  lounge  in  the  ilex  shadows, 
I  see  the  lady  lean. 
Unclasping  her  silken  girdle, 
The  curtain's  folds  between. 

She  smiles  on  her  white-rose  lover. 
She  reaches  out  her  hand 
And  helps  him  in  at  the  window — 
I  see  it  where  I  stand  ! 

To  her  scarlet  lips  she  holds  him, 
And  kisses  him  many  a  time — 
Ah,  me  !  it  was  he  that  won  her 
Because  he  dared  to  climb  ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 


STANZAS 


15 


STANZAS 

(^Addressed  to  IV.  R.    Tunier,   R.A.j  on  his  view  of 
the  Lago  Maggiore  from  the  lown  of  Arona) 

TURNER,  thy  pencil  brings  to  mind  a  day 
When  from  Laveno  and  the  Beuscer  Hill 
I  over  Lake  Verbanus  held  my  way 

in  pleasant  fellowship,  with  wind  at  will ; 
Smooth  were  the  waters  wide,  the  sky  serene. 
And  our  heart  gladdened  with  the  joyful  scene  ; — 

Joyful,  for  all  things  ministered  delight, — 

The  lake  and  land,  the  mountains  and  the  vales ; 

The  Alps  their  snowy  summits  raised  in  light. 
Tempering  with  gelid  breath  the  summer  gales  ; 

And    verdant   shores   and    woods   refreshed    the 
eye, 

That  else  had  ached  beneath  that  brilliant  sky. 

To  that  elaborate  island  were  we  bound, 
Of  yore  the  scene  of  Borromean  pride, — 

Folly's  prodigious  work ;  where  all  around, 
Under  its  coronet,  and  self-belied. 

Look  where  you  will,  you  cannot  choose  but  see 

The  obtrusive  motto's  proud  *'  Humility  !  " 

Far  off  the  Borromean  saint  was  seen, 

Distinct,  though  distant,  o'er  his  native  town, 

Where  his  Colossus  with  benignant  mien 
Looks  from  its  station  on  Arona  down ; 

To  it  the  inland  sailor  lifts  his  eyes. 

From  the  wide  lake,  when  perilous  storms  arise. 


!;! 


16  SKIES    ITALIAN 

But  no  storm  threatened  on  that  summer  day ; 

The  whole  rich  scene  appeared  for  joyance  made; 
With  many  a  gliding  bark  the  mere  was  gay, 

The  fields  and  groves  in  all  their  wealth  arrayed  ; 
I  could  have  thought  the  sun  beheld  with  smiles 
These  towns  and  palaces  and  populous  isles. 

From  fair  Arona,  even  on  such  a  day, 

When  gladness  was  descending  like  a  shower. 

Great  painter,  did  thy  gifted  eye  survey 

The  splendid  scene  ;  and,  conscious  of  its  power, 

Well  hath  thine  hand  inimitable  given 

The  glories  of  the  lake  and  land  and  heaven. 

Robert  Souihey 

THE  STATUE  OF  ST  CARLO  BORROMEO 

TRUE  fame  is  this, — through  love,  and  love 
alone. 
To  stand  thus  honoured  where  we  first  saw  day  ; 
True  puissance  this,— the  hand  of  lawful  sway 
In  love  alone  to  lift,  that  hand  whereon. 
Dove-like,  Eternal  Peace  hath  fixed  her  throne, 
And  whence  her  blessing  wings  o'er  earth  its  way ; 
True  rule  to  God  belongs.    Who  share  it  ?    They 
Through   whom   God's    gifts  on  humankind    are 

strewn. 
Bless  thus  thy  natal  place,  great  Priest,  forever ! 

And  thou,  Arona,  by  thy  placid  bay. 
Second  thy  sleepless  shepherd's  mute  endeavour. 
The  choice  is  thine,  if  that  high  grace,  like 

showers 
Of  sunbeams  rained  on  all  thy  hearthsand  bowers, 

Shall  feed  thy  growth  or  quicken  thy  decay  I 

Aubrey  de  Vere 


MOTHER   AND   POET       17 


ON  THE  LATE  MASSACRE  IN  PIEDMONT 

AVENGE,    O    Lord,    thy  slaughtered   saints, 
whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold ; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When   all   our   fathers    worshipped    stocks    and 

stones. 
Forget  not ;  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese  that  rolled 
Mother    with    infant    down    the    rocks.     Their 

moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 

To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes 

sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
The  triple  tyrant ;  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundred-fold,  who,  having  learned  thy  way. 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

John  Milton 


MOTHER  AND   POET 

{Turin,  after  Sews  from  Gaeta,  I86I) 

DEAD  !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the 
east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 
Dead  !  both  my  boys  !     When  you  sit  at  the  feast 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  ! 
B 


f\ 


I 


!^ 


Ill 


18  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year, 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men  said  ; 
But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agonised  here, 

—The  east  sea  and  west  sea  rhyme  on  in  her 
head 
For  ever  instead. 


What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at  ?     Oh,  vam  ! 

What  art  is  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her  breast 
With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile  at  the 

pain  ? 
Ah  boys,  how  you  hurt!    you  were  strong  as 

you  pressed. 
And  I  proud,  by  that  test. 

What  art's  for  a  woman  ?     To  hold  on  her  knees 
Both  darlings ;  to  feel  all  their  arms  round  her 
throat, 

Cling,  strangle  a  little,  to  sew  by  degrees 

And  'broider  the  long-clothes  and  neat  little 

coat ; 
To  dream  and  to  doat. 


To  teach  them.  .  .  .   It  stings  there  !  /made  them 

indeed 
Speak  plain  the  word  countnj.     I  taught  them, 

no  doubt, 
That  a  country's  a  thing  men  should  die  for  at 

need. 
/  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  cast  out. 


MOTHER   AND   POET       19 

And  when  their  eyes  flashed  .  .  .  O  my  beautiful 

C  y  ^r»3   •     •      •      • 

I  exulted  ;  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the  wheels 
Of   the    guns,  and    denied    not.     But   then    the 
surprise 
When  one  sits  quite  alone  !     Then  one  weeps, 
then  one  kneels  ! 
God,  how  the  house  feels  ! 


At  first,  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters  moiled 
With  my  kisses, — of  camp-life  and  glory,  and 
how 
They  both  loved  me ;  and,  soon  coming  home  to 
be  sj)oiled. 
In  return  would  fan  off  every  fly  from  my  brow 
With  their  green  laurel-bough. 

Then  was  triumph  at  Turin  :  *'  Ancona  was  free  !  " 
And   someone  came   out  of  the  cheers  in  the 
street. 
With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something  to  me. 
My  Guido  was  dead  !     1  fell  down  at  his  feet. 
While  they  cheered  in  the  street. 


1  bore  it ;  friends  soothed  me  ;  my  grief  looked 
sublime 
As  the  ransom  of  Italy.     One  boy  remained 
To  be   leant  on  and  walked  with,  recalling  the 
time 
When  the  first  grew  immortal,  while  both  of 
us  strained 
To  the  height  he  had  gained. 


I 


20  SKIES    ITALIAN 

And    letters    still    came,   shorter,   sadder,   more 
strong, 
Writ  now  but  in  one  hand,  "  I  was  not  to  faint,— 
One  loved  me  for  two — would   be  with  me  ere 
long: 
And  Fiva  l' Italia  ! — he  died  for,  our  saint, 
Who  forbids  our  complaint." 

My  Nanni  would  add,  ''  he  was  safe,  and  aware 
Of  a  presence  that  turned  off  the  balls,— was 
impressed 
It  was  Guido   himself,  who  knew   what  I  could 
bear. 
And  how  't  was  impossible,  quite  dispossessed. 
To  live  on  for  the  rest." 

On  which,  without  pause,  up  the  telegraph-line, 
Swept  smoothly  the  next  news  from  Gaeta  : — 
Shot. 
Tell  his  mother.     Ah,  ah,  "  his,"  "  their  "  mother, 
— not  "mine," 
No  voice  says  "  3/y  mother  "  again  to  me.  What ! 
You  think  Guido  forgot  ? 

Are    souls   straight    so  happy    that,    dizzy    with 
Heaven, 
They  drop  earth's  affections,  conceive    not  of 
woe  ? 
I  think  not.     Themselves  were  too  lately  forgiven 
Through  that  love  and  Sorrow  which  recon- 
ciled so 
The  Above  and  Below. 


MOTHER   AND   POET       21 

O  Christ  of  the  five  wounds,  who  look'dst  through 

the  dark 
To  the  face  of  Thy  mother !  consider,  I  pray. 
How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate,  mark. 
Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with  eyes 
turned  away 
And  no  last  word  to  say  ! 

Both  boys  dead  ?     But  that's  out  of  nature.     We 

all 
Have    been    patriots,   yet   each    house    must 

always  keep  one. 
'T  were  imbecile,  hewing  out  roads  to  a  wall ; 
And,  when    Italy's  made,  for  what   end   is  it 
done 
Tf  we  have  not  a  son  ? 

Ah,  ah,  ah  !  when  GaetA's  taken,  what  then  ? 
When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more  at 
her  sport 
Of  the  fire-balls  of  death  crushing  souls  out  of 
men  ? 
When  the  guns  of  Cavalli  with  final  retort 
Have  cut  the  game  short  ? 

When  Venice  and  Rome  keep  their  new  jubilee, 
When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its  white, 
green,  and  red, 
When  you  have  your  country  from  mountain  to 

sea. 
When   King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on    his 

head, 
(And  I  have  my  Dead) — 


'^' 


22 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


It 
II 


What  then  ?     Do  not  mock  me.     Ah,  ring  your 
bells  low. 

And  burn  your  lights  faintly !     3///  country  is 
there. 
Above  the  star  pricked  by  the  last  peak  of  snow  : 
My  Italy's  there,  with  my  brave  civic  Pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair ! 

Forgive    me.      Some    women    bear    children    in 
strength, 
And    bite  back   the  cry  of  their  pain  in  self- 
scorn  ; 
But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring  us  at 
length 
Into  such  wail  as  this — and  we  sit  on  forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 

Dead  !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 

Both  !  both  my  boys  !     If  in  keeping  the  feast 
You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  ! 

(This  was  Laura  Savio,  of  Turin,  poet  and  patriot,  whose 
sons  fell  at  Ancona  and  Gaeta. ) 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Bronmins 

o 


IN  A  VINEYARD  OF  ASTI 

O  NYMPH  of  cheer,  that  lurks  within  the  vine, 
You  shall  not  so  elude  me  as  you  think  ! 
Eyes  shall  be  bright  for  you,  and  cheeks  be  pink. 
Though  cool  in  clusters  lurking,  you  recline. 


IV 


IN  A  VINEYARD  OF  ASTI  23 

On  cheese  of  Parma,  some  day  we  shall  dine, 
Faunian  enough  to  make  the  Cyclops  blink. 
O  Sprite  of  Asti !  there  shall  be  the  clink 

Of  fluted  glasses  foamed  with  golden  wine  : 

Some  eve  upon  the  Corso,  down  at  Rome, 
Giulio  and  I  shall  find  you,  bottled  trim. 

And,  sipping  softly,  hear  the  hissing  foam 
Of  rising  bubbles  bursting  round  the  rim  : 
Then  walk  up  to  the  Pincio  for  a  whim 

And  watch  the  sunset  glorify  the  Dome. 

Lloyd  Mifflin 


'i. 


r  f 


:il 


i 


i 


.«^ 


THE  LIGURIAN  SHORE 


THE  LIGURIAN  SHORE 


VILLA  FRANCA 

(1859) 

WAIT  a  little  :  do  we  not  wait  ? 
Louis  Napoleon  is  not  Fate, 
Francis  Joseph  is  not  Time  ; 
There's  One  hath  swifter  feet  than  Crime 
Gmnon-parliaments  settle  naught ; 
V^enice  is  Austria's, — whose  is  Thought  ? 
Minie  is  good,  but,  spite  of  change, 
Gutenberg's  gun  has  the  longest  range. 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lachesis,  twist  !  and,  Atropos,  sever ! 

In  the  shadow,  year  out,  year  in. 

The  silent  headsman  waits  forever. 


I 


Wait,  we  say  :  our  years  are  long  ; 
Men  are  weak,  but  Man  is  strong ; 
Since  the  stars  first  curved  their  rings, 
We  have  looked  on  many  things ; 
Great  wars  come  and  great  wars  go. 
Wolf-tracks  light  on  polar  snow ; 
We  shall  see  him  come  and  gone, 
This  second-hand  Napoleon. 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin ! 

Lachesis,  twist  !  and,  Atropos,  sever  ! 

In  the  shadow,  year  out,  year  in. 

The  silent  headsman  waits  forever. 

27 


m.^ 


I    1 


28 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


We  saw  the  elder  Corsican, 
And  Clotho  muttered  as  she  span. 
While  crowned  lackeys  bore  the  train, 
Of  the  pinchbeck  Charlemagne  : 
"  Sister,  stint  not  length  of  thread  ! 
Sister,  stay  the  scissors  dread  ! 
On  Saint  Helen's  granite  bleak, 
Hark,  the  vulture  whets  his  beak  !" 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lachesis,  twist  I  and,  Atropos,  sever  ! 

In  the  shadow,  year  out,  year  in, 

The  silent  headsman  waits  forever. 


The  Bonapartes,  we  know  their  bees 

That  wade  in  honey  red  to  the  knees ; 

Their  patent  reaper,  its  sheaves  sleep  sound 

In  dreamless  garners  underground  : 

We  know  false  glory's  spendthrift  race 

Pawning  nations  for  feathers  and  lace  ; 

It  may  be  short,  it  may  be  long, 

"'Tis  reckoning-day!"  sneers  unpaid  Wrong. 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lachesis,  twist !  and,  Atropos,  sever  ! 

In  the  shadow,  year  out,  year  in. 

The  silent  headsman  waits  forever. 


The  Cock  that  wears  the  Eagle's  skin 
Can  promise  what  he  ne'er  could  win  ; 
Slavery  reaped  for  fine  words  sown. 
System  for  all,  and  rights  for  none. 
Despots  atop,  a  wild  clan  below. 
Such  is  the  Gaul  from  long  ago ; 
Wash  the  black  from  the  Ethiop's  face, 
Wash  the  past  out  of  man  or  race  ! 


I 


\N 


VILLA  FRANCA  29 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin ! 
Lachesis,  twist !  and,  Atropos,  sever  ! 
In  the  shadow,  year  out,  year  in. 
The  silent  headsman  waits  forever. 

'Neath  Gregory's  throne  a  spider  swings. 

And  snares  the  people  for  the  kings ; 

**  Luther  is  dead  ;  old  quarrels  pass  ; 

The  stake's  black  scars  are  healed  with  grass ; " 

So  dreamers  prate ;  did  man  ere  live 

Saw  priest  or  woman  yet  forgive  ? 

But  Luther's  broom  is  left,  and  eyes 

Peep  o'er  their  creeds  to  where  it  lies. 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin  ! 

Lachesis,  twist  !  and,  Atropos,  sever ! 

In  the  shadow,  year  out,  year  in. 

The  silent  headsman  waits  forever. 

Smooth  sails  the  ship  of  either  realm, 

Kaiser  and  Jesuit  at  the  helm  ; 

We  look  down  the  depths,  and  mark 

Silent  workers  in  the  dark 

Building  slow  the  sharp-tusked  reefs, 

Old  instincts  hardening  to  new  beliefs ; 

Patience  a  little  ;  learn  to  wait ; 

Hours  are  long  on  the  clock  of  Fate. 

Spin,  spin,  Clotho,  spin ! 

Lachesis,  twist !  and,  Atropos,  sever  ! 

Darkness  is  strong,  and  so  is  Sin, 

But  only  God  endures  forever ! 

James  Russell  Lowell 


Mil 


: 


i 


r./^' 


I- ' 
I 


30  SKIES    ITALIAN 


GENOA 

I  AM  where  mountains  round  me  shine  ; 
But  in  sweet  vision  truer  than  mine  eyes 
I  see  pale  Genoa's  marble  crescent  rise 
Between  the  water  and  the  Apennine. 

On  the  sea-bank  she  couches  like  a  deer, 
A  creature  giving  light  with  her  soft  sheen, 
While  the  blue  ocean  and  the  mountain  green 
Pleased  with  the  wonder  always  gaze  on  her. 

And  day  and  night  the  mild  sea-murmur  fills 
The  corridors  of  her  cool  palaces. 
Taking  the  freshness  from  the  orange  trees, 
A  fragrant  gift  into  the  peaceful  hills. 

And  from  the  balustrades  into  the  street, 
From  time  to  time  there  are  voluptuous  showers. 
Gentle  descents,  of  shaken  lemon  flowers 
Snapped  by  the  echo  of  the  passing  feet. 

And    when   the    sun    his    noonday    height    hath 

gained. 
How  mute  is  all  that  slumbrous  Apennine, 
Upon  whose  base  the  streaks  of  green  turf  shine. 
With  the  black  olive-gardens  interveined  ! 

How  fair  it  is  when,  in  the  purple  bay. 
Of  the  soft  sea  the  clear  edged  moon  is  drinking, 
Or  the  dark  sky  amid  the  shipmasts  winking 
With  summer  lightning  over  Corsica  ! 


GENOA 


31 


O  Genoa  !  thou  art  a  marvellous  birth — 
A  clasp  which  joins  the  mountains  and  the  sea  : 
And  the  two  powers  do  homage  unto  thee 
As  to  a  matchless  wonder  of  the  earth. 

Can  life  be  common  life  in  spots  like  these 
Where  they  breathe  breath  from  orange  gardens 
wafted  ? 

0  joy  and  sorrow  surely  must  be  grafted 
On  stems  apart  for  these  bright  Genoese. 

The  place  is  islanded  amid  her  mirth. 
The  very  girdle  of  her  beauty  thrown 
About  her  in  men's  minds,  a  virgin  zone, 
Marks  her  a  spot  unmated  on  the  earth. 

1  hear  the  deep  coves  of  the  Apennine, 
Filled  with  a  gentle  trouble  of  sweet  bells  : 

And  the  blue  tongues  of  sea  that  pierce  the  dells. 
As  conscious  of  the  Virgin's  feast  day  shine. 

For  Genoa  the  Proud  for  many  an  age 
Hath  been  pre-eminent  as  tributary 
Unto  the  special  service  of  St  Mary, 
The  sinless  Virgin's  chosen  appanage. 

I  see  the  street  with  very  stacks  of  flowers 
Choked  up,  a  wild  and  beautiful  array. 
And  in  my  mind  I  thread  my  fragrant  way 
Once  more  amid  the  rich  and  cumbrous  bowers. 

And  unforgotten  beauty  !  by  the  Bay, 
I  see  two  boys  and  the  little  maiden 
VV^ith  crimson  tulips  for  the  Virgin  laden. 
Wending  along  the  road  from  Spezzia. 

F.  W.  Faber 


ry-' 


32 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


f 


ll 


GENOA 

AH  !  what  avails  it,  Genoa,  now  to  thee 
That  Doria,  feared  by  monarchs,  once  was 

thine  ? 

Univied  ruin !  in  thy  sad  decline 
From  virtuous  greatness,  what  avails  that  he 
Whose  prow  descended  first  the  Hesperian  sea, 

And    gave   our  world    her   mate    beyond   the 

brine, 
Was  nurtured,  whilst  an  infant,  at  thy  knee  ? — 

All  things  must  perish,— all  but  things  divine. 
Flowers,  and  the  stars,  and  virtue,— these  alone. 

The  self-subsisting  shapes,  or  self-renewing. 
Survive.        All     else      are     sentenced.       Wisest 

were 
That  builder  who  should  plan  with  strictest  care 
(Ere   yet    the    wood   was   felled    or    hewn    the 
stone) 
The  aspect  only  of  his  pile  in  ruin  ! 

Aubrey  dc  Fere 


SONNET 

(JVrUten  in  Hohj   Week  at  Genoa) 

I  WANDERED  in  Scoglietto's  green  retreat. 
The  oranges  on  each  o'erhanging  spray 
Burned     as  bright    lamps   of    gold  to    shame 

the  day ; 
Some   startled   bird    with    fluttering   wings   and 

fleet 


\ 


GENOVA   MIA 


33 


Made  snow  of  all  the  blossoms,  at  my  feet 
Like  silver  moons  the  pale  narcissi  lay  : 
And    the    curved    waves    that    streaked    the 
sapphire  bay 
Laughed  i'  the  sun,  and  life  seemed  very  sweet. 
Outside    the    young    boy-priest    passed    singing 
clear, 
"Jesus  the  Son  of  Mary  has  been  slain, 
O  come  and  fill  his  sepulchre  with  flowers." 
Ah,  God  !     Ah,  God  !  those  dear  Hellenic  hours 
Had  drowned  all  memory  of  Thy  bitter  pain. 
The   Cross,  the  Crown,  the  Soldiers,  and  the 
Spear. 

Oscar  Wilde 


GENOVA    MIA 


il' 


IF  still  I  can  behold,  and  shed  no  tear 
Thy  beauty,  Genoa,  mangled  thus  and  torn. 
Think  not  thy  son  disloyal,  whom  the  fear 
Of  treason  to  thy  state  forbids  to  mourn. 
Thy  greatness  in  these  ruins  I  revere, 

Trophies  of  stern  resolve  and  generous  scorn ; 
At  every  step  in  every  object  near 

I  trace  thy  courage  in  thy  dangers  borne. 
Above  all  victory  is  to  suffer  well ; 

And  such  is  thine  ;  with  thee  it  still  remains. 
Thus  in  the  dust  and  not  disconsolate ! 
Now  Freedom  loves  upon  thy  form  to  dwell, 
And  kisses  every  wound,  and  cries  elate, 
O  yes,  the  Ruins  ever,  not  the  Chains ! 

G  act  ana  Passerini, 
tr.  James  Glassjbrd,  of  Dougalston 
C 


I 


■  r 


34 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


GENOA 

GENTLY,  as  roses  die,  the  day  declines ; 
On  the   charmed   air  there  is  a  hush  the 

while ; 

And  delicate  are  the  twilight-tints  that  smile 
Upon  the  summits  of  the  Apennines. 
The  moon  is  up ;  and  o'er  the  warm  wave  shines 

A  faery  bridge  of  light,  whose  beams  beguile 

The  fancy  to  some  far  and  fortunate  isle. 
Which  love  in  solitude  unlonely  shrines. 
The  blue  night  of  Italian  summer  glooms 

Around  us  :  over  the  crystalline  swell 
I  gaze  on  Genoa's  spires  and  palace-domes : 

City  of  cities,  the  superb,  farewell ! 

The  beautiful,  in  nature's  bloom,  is  thine : 

And  Art  hath  made  it  deathless  and  divine ! 

William  Gibson 


SAN  TERENZO 

MID  April  seemed  like  some  November  day, 
When  through  the  glassy  waters,  dull  as 

lead, 
Our  boat,  like  shadowy  barques  that  bear  the 

dead, 
Slipped  down  the  long  shores  of  the  Spezzian  bay, 
Rounded  a  point,— and  San  Terenzo  lay 
Before  us,  that  gay  village,  yellow  and  red. 
The    roof    that     covered    Shelley's    homeless 

head, — 
His  house,  a  place  deserted,  bleak  and  gray. 


rii 


ro   SHELLEY 


35 


The  waves  broke  on  the  doorstep ;  fishermen 

Cast  their  long  nets,  and  drew,  and  cast  again. 

Deep  in  the  ilex  woods  we  wandered  free, 

When  suddenly  the  forest  glades  were  stirred 
With  waving  pinions,  and  a  great  sea  bird 

Flew  forth,  like  Shelley's  spirit,  to  the  sea  I 

Andrew  Lang 


TO    SHELLEY 

SHELLEY  I  whose  song  so  sweet  was  sweetest 
here. 
We  knew  each  other  little ;  now  I  walk 
Along  the  same  green  path,  along  the  shore 
Of  Lerici,  along  the  sandy  plain 
Trending  from  Lucca  to  the  Pisan  pines 
Under  whose  shadow  scattered  camels  lie. 
The  old  and  young,  and  rarer  deer  uplift 
Their  knotty  branches  o'er  high-feathered  fern. 
Regions  of  happiness  !  I  greet  ye  well ; 
Your  solitudes,  and  not  your  cities,  stayed 
My  steps  among  you  ;  for  with  you  alone 
Converst  I,  and  with  those  ye  bore  of  old. 
He  who  beholds  the  skies  of  Italy 
Sees  ancient  Rome  reflected,  sees  beyond. 
Into  more  glorious  Hellas,  nurse  cf  Gods 
And  godlike  men  :  dwarfs  people  other  lands. 
Frown  not,  maternal  England !  thy  weak  child 
Kneels  at  thy  feet  and  owns  in  shame  a  lie. 

Walter  Savage  Landor 


|i^ 


W' 


X 


I 


I 


|>      * 


III 


36  SKIES   ITALIAN 

LINES    WRITTEN   NEAR  SHELLEY'S 

HOUSE 

AND    here    he    paced!      These    glimmering 
pathways  strewn 
With    faded   leaves,  his   light,   swift   fuotsteps 
crushed ; 
The  odour  of  yon  pine  was  o'er  him  blown  : 

Music  went  by  him  in  each  wind  that  brushed 
Those  yielding  stems  of  ilex  !     Here,  alone, 

He  walked  at  noon,  or  silent  stood  and  hushed 
When    the     ground-ivy    flashed    the    moonlight 

sheen 
Back  from  the  forest  always  green. 

Poised  as  on  air  the  lithe  elastic  bower 

Now  bends,  resilient  now  against  the  wind 

Recoils,  like  Dryads  that  one  moment  cower 
And  rise  the  next  with  loose  locks  unconfined. 

Through   the  dim  roof  like  gems  the  sunbeams 
shower ; 
Old  cypress-trunks  the  aspiring  bay-trees  bind. 

And  soon  will  have  them  wholly  underneath  : 

Types  eminent  of  glory  conquering  death. 

Far  down  the  shelves  and  sands  below 

The  respirations  of  a  southern  sea 
Beat  with  susurrent  cadence,  soft  and  slow  : 

Round  the  gray  cave's  fantastic  imagery, 
In  undulation  eddying  to  and  fro. 

The  purple  waves  swell  up  or  backward  flee  ; 
While,   dewed   at   each    rebound   with    gentlest 

shock. 
The  myrtle  leans  her  green  breast  on  the  rock. 


LINES 


37 


And  here  he  stood ;  upon  his  face  that  light. 
Streamed  from  some  furthest  realm  of  lumin- 
ous thought, 

Which  clothed  his  fragile  beauty  with  the  might 
Of  suns  forever  rising  !     Here  he  caught 

Visions  divine.     He  saw  a  fiery  flight 

"The    hound    of     Heaven,"     with     heavenly 
vengeance  fraught, 

"  Run  down  the  slanted  sunlight  of  the  morn" — 

Prometheus  frown  on  Jove  with  scorn  for  scorn. 


He  saw  white  Arethusa,  leap  on  leap, 

Plunge  from  the  Acroceraunian  ledges  bare 
With    all    her   torrent  streams,   while    from    the 
steep 
Alpheus  bounded  on  her  unaware  : 
Hellas  he  saw,  a  giant  fresh  from  sleep. 

Break  from  the  night  of  bondage  and  despair. 
Who    but    Iiad    sung    as    there    he    stood    and 

smiled, 
"Justice    and    truth    have    found    their    winged 
child!" 


Through   cloud    and   wave   and    star  his    insight 
keen 

Shone  clear,  and  traced  a  god  in  each  disguise, 
Protean,  boundless.     Like  the  buskincd  scene 

All  nature  rapt  him  into  ecstasies : 
In  him,  alas  !  had  reverence  equal  been 

With  admiration,  those  resplendent  eyes 
Had  wandered  not  through  all  her  range  sublime 
To  miss  the  one  great  marvel  of  all  time. 


A. 


38  SKIES   ITALIAN 

The  winds  sang  loud  ;  from  this  Elysian  nest 
He   rose,   and   trod   yon    spine   of   mountains 

bleak. 
While  stormy  suns  descending  in  the  west 

Stained  as  with  blood  yon  promontory's  beak. 
That  hour,  responsive  to  his  soul's  unrest, 
Carrara's  marble  summits,  peak  to  peak, 
Sent  forth  their  thunders  like  the  battle-cry 
Of  nations  arming  for  the  victory. 

Aubrey  de  Fere 

SHELLEY'S   HOUSE 

THOU,  last,  O  Lerici,  receive  my  song  : 
Ilex  and  olive  on  the  gleaming  steep 
Gray-green,  descend  to  kiss  the  brilliant  deep 
Beautiful  with  clear  winds  ;  the  golden  leap 
Of  the  far-snowing  blue,  with  homed  sweep. 
Pours  to  yon  purple  sea-valley  asleep. 
Between  fair  mountains  locked  ;  and  noon's  high 

blaze 
Turns  to  one  melting  sapphire  all  light's  rays, 
Wherein    the    wild    wind   blows,   the   wild    wave 

strays, 
While  ocean  from  his  azure  censer  sprays 
Each  scarlet  poppy  that  the  shore  embays 
Mid  thickets  of  the  rose  ;  and  all  day  long 
The  nightingales  are  waking,  loud  and  strong. 
Warbling  unseen  their  unremitting  song 
Round  Shelley's  house,  lest  here  I  suffer  wrong. 
This   day  that   gave    me    birth,  pierced   by  the 

prong 
Of  absence,  misery,  loss ;  and,  lest  I  weep, 
Colour  and  light  and  music  round  me  keep 


AFTER   A   LECTURE 


39 


Life's  crystal,  and  this  day  of  all  my  days 

To  be  a  temple  of  the  soul  upraise. 

Where  I  may  breathe  and  throb  and  muse,  and 

long 
Brood  on  the  loves  that  to  my  bosom  throng ; 
And  from  these  splendours  of  earth,  sea,  and  air, 
Like  Uriel  issuing  from  the  glorious  sphere 
That  hides  him  with  great  beauty,  everywhere 
I  feel  the  might  of  song  that  once  dwelt  here, 
A  shadow  of  loveliness  approaching  near, 
A  fragrance  in  the  unseen  atmosphere. 
An  intimate  presence  in  the  darkness  dear ; 
I  see,  and  see  not !     O,  the  sweet,  the  fair 
Melodious  death  my  sea-borne  soul  should  bear 
With   yon    blue   waters   whelmed,   to  meet    him 

there. 
My  poet ! — yet  rather  life  to  me  belong  ! — 
Sing,  nightingales,  flood  the  blind  world  with  song  ! 

George  Edward  JVoodbeny 

[Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Messrs  Macmillan] 

AFTER    A   LECTURE   ON   SHELLEY 

ONE  broad,  white  sail  in  Spezzia's  treacherous 
bay; 
On  comes  the  blast ;  too  daring  bark,  beware  ! 
The  cloud  has  clasped  her  ;  lo  !  it  melts  away  ; 
The  wide,  waste  waters,  but  no  sail  is  there. 

Morning  :  a  woman  looking  on  the  sea  ; 

Midnight :  with  lamps  the  long  veranda  burns  ; 
Come,  wandering  sail,  they  watch,  they  burn 
for  thee ! 

Suns  come  and  go,  alas  !  no  bark  returns. 


1^1 


ii 


i 


I  T 


I 


40 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


And  feet  are  thronging  on  the  pebbly  sands, 
And  torches  flaring  in  the  weedy  caves. 

Where'er  the  waters  lay  with  icy  hands 

The  shapes  ui)lifted  from  their  coral  graves. 

Vainly  they  seek  ;  the  idle  quest  is  o'er ; 

The  coarse,  dark  women,  with   their  hanging 
locks, 
And  lean,  wild  children  gather  from  the  shore 

To  the  black  hovels  bedded  in  the  rocks. 


But  Love  still  prayed,  with  agonizing  wail, 

"  One,  one  last  look,  ye  heaving  waters,  yield  !  " 

Till  Ocean,  clashing  in  his  jointed  mail, 
Raised  the  pale  burden  on  his  level  shield. 

Slow  from  the  shore  the  sullen  waves  retire ; 

His  form  a  nobler  element  shall  claim  ; 
Nature  baptized  him  in  ethereal  fire. 

And  Death  shall  crown  him  with  a  wreath  of 
flame. 

Fade,  mortal  semblance,  never  to  return ; 

Swift  is  the  change  within  thy  crimson  shroud  ; 
Seal  the  white  ashes  in  the  peaceful  urn ; 

All  else  has  risen  in  yon  silvery  cloud. 

Sleep  where  thy  gentle  Adonais  lies. 

Whose  open  page  lay  on  thy  dying  heart, 

Both  in  the  smile  of  those  blue-vaulted  skies, 
Earth's  fairest  dome  of  all  divinest  art. 


miiwtMiiffMitliriiiiaaaggw. 


SHELLEY'S  DEATH 


41 


Breathe  for  his  wandering  soul  one  passing  sigh, 
O    happier   Christian,  while   thine  eye  grows 
dim, — 
In  all  the  mansions  of  the  house  on  high. 
Say  not  that  Mercy  has  not  one  for  him ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 


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SHELLEY'S   DEATH 

'WAS  some  enamour'd  Nereid  craved  a  storm 
Of  Eolus,  her  minstrel  to  immerse 
In  blue  cold  waves  and  white  caresses  warm : 
So  the   sea  whelmed   him,  whelming   not  his 
verse. 

IVilliam  Watson 


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THE   LOMBxVRD   PLAIN 

LINES  WRITTEN  AMONG  THE  EUGANEAN 

HILLS 

{October  1818) 

MANY  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 
In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery. 
Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 
Never  thus  could  voyage  on 
Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day. 
Drifting  on  his  weary  way, 
With  the  solid  darkness  black 
Closing  round  his  vessel's  track ; 
Whilst  above,  the  sunless  sky. 
Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily. 
And  behind  the  tempest  fleet 
Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet. 
Riving  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank. 
Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 
Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep ; 
And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 
When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 
Weltering  through  eternity  ; 
And  the  dim  low  line  before 
Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 
Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 
Longing  with  divided  will, 

45 


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46  SKIES   ITALIAN 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 
He  is  ever  drifted  on 
O'er  the  unreposing  wave 
To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 
What,  if  there  no  friends  will  greet ; 
What,  if  there  no  heart  will  meet 
His  with  love's  impatient  beat ; 
W^ander  whereso'er  he  may. 
Can  he  dream  before  that  day 
To  find  refuge  from  distress 
In  friendship's  smile,  in  love's  caress? 
Then  'twill  wreak  him  little  woe 
Whether  such  there  be  or  no : 
Senseless  is  the  breast,  and  cold. 
Which  relenting  love  would  fold  ; 
Bloodless  are  the  veins  and  chill 
Which  the  pulse  of  pain  did  fill ; 
Every  little  living  nerve 
That  from  bitter  words  did  swerve 
Round  the  tortured  lips  and  brow. 
Are  like  sapless  leaflets  now- 
Frozen  upon  December's  bough. 


n 


On  the  beach  of  a  northern  sea 

Which  tempests  shake  eternally. 

As  once  the  wretch  there  lay  to  sleep. 

Lies  a  solitary  heap. 

One  white  skull  and  seven  dry  bones, 

On  the  margin  of  the  stones. 

Where  a  few  gray  rushes  stand. 

Boundaries  of  the  sea  and  land  : 

Nor  is  heard  one  voice  of  wail 

But  the  sea-mews,  as  they  sail 


THE   EUGANEAN   HILLS     47 

O'er  the  billows  of  the  gale  ; 

Or  the  whirlwind  up  and  down 

Howling,  like  a  slaughtered  town. 

When  a  king  in  glory  rides 

Through  the  pomp  of  fratricides  : 

Those  unburied  bones  around 

There  is  many  a  mournful  sound  ; 

There  is  no  lament  for  him. 

Like  a  sunless  vapour,  dim. 

Who  once  clothed  with  life  and  thought 

What  now  moves  nor  murmurs  not. 

Ay,  many  flowering  islands  lie 

In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony  : 

To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led 

My  bark  by  soft  winds  piloted  : 

Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 

I  stood  listening  to  the  paean. 

With  which  the  legioned  rooks  did  hail 

The  sun's  uprise  majestical ; 

Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 

Thro'  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 

Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 

Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 

Fleckt  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 

In  the  unfathomable  skv. 

So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain. 

Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain, 

Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods. 

As  in  silent  multitudes 

On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 

Thro'  the  broken  mist  they  sail. 

And  the  vapours  cloven  and  gleaming 

Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming. 


iiil 


48  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still, 
Round  the  solitary  hill. 


V  i 


Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 
Islanded  by  cities  fair; 
Underneath  day's  azure  eyes 
Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies, 
A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 
Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 
With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 
Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind. 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half  reclined 
On  the  level  quivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline  ; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light, 
As  within  a  furnace  bright. 
Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire. 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire. 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies ; 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise, 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  City,  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen  ; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day. 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey. 


Aa 


THE   EUGANEAN   HILLS     49 

If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 

Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 

A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now. 

With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 

Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 

From  thy  throne,  among  the  waves 

Wilt  thou  be,  when  the  sea-mew 

Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew. 

O'er  thine  isles  depopulate. 

And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state. 

Save  where  many  a  palace  gate 

With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown 

Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  ow^n. 

Topples  o'er  the  abandoned  sea 
As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 
The  fisher  on  his  watery  way, 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day. 
Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 
Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore. 
Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 
Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep. 
Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death 
O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Those  who  alone  thy  towers  behold 
Quivering  thro'  aerial  gold. 
As  I  now  behold  them  here. 
Would  imagine  not  they  were 
Sepulchres,  where  human  forms. 
Like  pollution-nourished  worms. 
To  the  corpse  of  greatness  cling, 
Murdered,  and  now  mouldering : 
But  if  Freedom  should  awake 
In  her  omnipotence,  and  shake 

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50  SKIES    ITALIAN 

From  the  Celtic  Anarch's  hold 

All  the  keys  of  dungeons  cold, 

Where  a  hundred  cities  lie 

Chained  like  thee,  ingloriously, 

Thou  and  all  thy  sister  band 

Might  adorn  this  sunny  land. 

Twining  memories  of  old  time 

With  new  virtues  more  sublime  ; 

If  not,  perish  thou  and  they. 

Clouds  which  stain  truth's  rising  day 

By  her  sun  consumed  away. 

Earth  can  spare  ye  :  while  like  flowers, 

In  the  waste  of  years  and  hours. 

From  your  dust  new  nations  spring 

With  more  kindly  blossoming. 

Perish— let  there  only  be 

Floating  o'er  thy  heartless  sea 

As  the  garment  of  thy  sky 

Clothes  the  world  immortally. 

One  remembrance,  more  sublime 

Than  the  tattered  pall  of  time, 

Which  scarce  hides  thy  visage  wan  ;— 

That  a  tempest-cleaving  Swan 

Of  the  songs  of  Albion, 

Driven  from  his  ancestral  streams 

By  the  might  of  evil  dreams. 

Found  a  nest  in  thee  ;  and  Ocean 

Welcomed  him  with  such  emotion 

That  its  joy  grew  his,  and  sprung 

From  his  lips  like  music  flung 

O'er  a  mighty  thunder-fit 

Chastening  terror  : — what  tho'  yet 

Poesy's  unfailing  River, 

Which  thro'  Albion  winds  forever 


THE   EUGANEAN   HILLS     51 

Lashing  with  melodious  wave 
Many  a  sacred  Poet's  grave. 
Mourn  its  latest  nursling  fled? 
What  tho'  thou  with  all  thy  dead 
Scarce  can  for  this  fame  repay 
Aught  thine  own  ?  oh,  rather  say 
Tho'  thy  sins  and  slaveries  foul 
Overcloud  a  sunlike  soul  ? 
As  the  ghost  of  Homer  clings 
Round  Scamander's  wasting  springs  ; 
As  divinest  Shakspere's  might 
Fills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light 
Like  omniscient  power  which  he 
Imaged  mid  mortality ; 
As  the  love  from  Petrarch's  urn 
Yet  amid  yon  hills  doth  burn, 
A  quenchless  lamp  by  which  the  heart 
Sees  things  unearthly; — so  thou  art 
Mighty  spirit — so  shall  be 
The  City  that  did  refuge  thee. 

Lo,  the  sun  floats  up  the  sky 
Like  thought-winged  Liberty, 
Till  the  universal  light 
Seems  to  level  plain  and  height ; 
From  the  sea  a  mist  has  spread. 
And  the  beams  of  morn  lie  dead 
On  the  towers  of  Venice  now. 
Like  its  glory  long  ago. 
By  the  skirts  of  that  gray  cloud 
Many-domed  Padua  proud 
Stands,  a  peopled  solitude. 
Mid  the  harvest-shining  plain. 
Where  the  peasant  heaps  his  grain 


'M 


I 


52  SKIES    ITALIAN 

In  the  garner  of  his  foe, 
And  the  milk-white  oxen  slow 
With  the  purple  vintage  strain, 
Heaped  upon  the  creaking  wain, 
That  the  brutal  Celt  may  swill 
Drunken  sleep  with  savage  will  ; 
And  the  sickle  to  the  sword 
Lies  unchanged,  tho'  many  a  lord, 
Like  a  weed  whose  shade  is  poison, 
Overgrows  this  region's  foison. 
Sheaves  of  whom  are  ripe  to  come 
To  destruction's  harvest-home : 
Men  must  reap  the  things  they  sow, 
Force  from  force  must  ever  flow. 
Or  worse  ;  but  'tis  a  bitter  woe 
That  love  or  reason  cannot  change 
The  despot's  rage,  the  slave's  revenge. 

Padua,  thou  within  whose  walls 
Those  mute  guests  at  festivals. 
Son  and  Mother,  Death  and  Sin, 
Played  at  dice  for  Ezzelin, 
Till  Death  cried,  "  I  win,  I  win  !" 
And  Sin  cursed  to  lose  the  wager. 
But  Death  promised,  to  assuage  her, 
That  he  would  petition  for 
Her  to  be  made  Vice-Emperor, 
When  the  destined  years  were  o'er. 
Over  all  between  the  Po 
And  the  eastern  Alpine  snow. 
Under  the  mighty  Austrian. 
Sin  smiled  so  as  Sin  only  can. 
And  since  that  time,  ay,  long  before. 
Both  have  ruled  from  shore  to  shore. 


THE   EUGANEAN   HILLS     53 

That  incestuous  pair,  who  follow 
Tyrants  as  the  sun  the  swallow. 
As  repentance  follows  crime. 
And  as  changes  follow  Time. 

In  thine  halls  the  lamp  of  learning, 

Padua,  now  no  more  is  burning ; 

Like  a  meteor,  whose  wild  way 

Is  lost  over  the  grave  of  day, 

It  gleams  betrayed  and  to  betray  : 

Once  remotest  nations  came 

To  adore  that  sacred  flame. 

When  it  lit  not  many  a  hearth 

On  this  cold  and  gloomy  earth  ; 

Now  new  fires  from  antique  light 

Spring  beneath  the  wide  world's  might ; 

But  their  spark  lies  dead  in  thee, 

Trampled  out  by  tyranny. 

As  the  Norway  woodman  quells, 

In  the  depth  of  piny  dells. 

One  light  flame  among  the  brakes 

While  the  boundless  forest  shakes, 

And  its  mighty  trunks  are  torn 

By  the  fire  thus  lowly  born  : 

The  spark  beneath  his  feet  is  dead, 

He  starts  to  see  the  flames  it  fed 

Howling  thro*  the  darkened  sky 

With  a  myriad  tongues  victoriously. 

And  sinks  down  in  fear  :  so  thou 

O  Tyranny  !  beholdest  now 

Light  around  thee,  and  thou  hearest 

The  loud  flames  ascend,  and  fearest : 

Grovel  on  the  earth  !  ay,  hide 

In  the  dust  thy  purple  pride  ! 


I 


54  SKIES   ITALIAN 

Noon  descends  around  me  now  : 
'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 
Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 
Or  an  air-dissolved  star 
Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 
From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 
To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 
Fills  the  overflowing  sky  ; 
And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 
Underneath,  the  leaves  unsodden 
Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 
With  his  morning-winged  feet, 
Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet ; 
And  the  red  and  golden  vines. 
Piercing  with  their  trellist  lines 
The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness ; 
The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less. 
Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 
In  the  windless  air  ;   the  flower 
Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 
Of  the  olive-sandalled  Apennine 

In  the  south  dimly  islanded : 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 

Hish  between  the  clouds  and  sun ; 

And  of  living  things  each  one  ; 

And  my  spirit  which  so  long 

Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song, 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glor}-  of  the  sky  : 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

Odour,  or  the  soul  of  all 

W^hich  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 


THE   EUGANEAN   HILLS     55 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse. 
Peopling  the  lone  universe. 
Noon  descends,  and  after  noon 
Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon. 
Leading  the  infantine  moon, 
And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 
Almost  seems  to  minister 
Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 
From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs  : 
And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 
(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 
To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 
Mid  remembered  agonies. 
The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being) 
Pass,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing, 
And  its  ancient  pilot.  Pain, 
Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 


Other  flowering  isles  must  be 
In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony  : 
Other  spirits  float  and  flee 
O'er  that  gulf :  even  now,  perhaps. 
On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps. 
With  folded  wings  they  waiting  sit 
For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 
To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove. 
Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love. 
May  a  windless  bower  be  built. 
Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt. 
In  a  dell  mid  lawny  hills. 
Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills, 
And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 
Of  old  forests  echoing  round, 


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m  SKIES    ITALIAN 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine  : 

We  may  live  so  happy  there, 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air, 

Envying  us,  may  even  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  polluting  multitude  ; 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm, 

And  the  wind  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves  ; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies, 

And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life. 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood : 

They,  not  it,  would  change  ;  and  soon 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

W^ould  repent  its  envy  vain. 

And  the  earth  grow  young  again. 

Fercy  Bysshe  Shelley 

THE   CATHEDRAL   OF    MILAN 

WITH   steps   subdued,  silence,  and   labour 
long 
I  reached  the  marble  roofs.     Awe  vanquished 
dread. 
White  were  they  as  the  summit  of  Mont  Blanc, 
When  noontide  parleys  with   that  mountain's 
head. 


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THE   LAST   SUPPER        57 

The  far-off  Alps,  by  morning  tinged  with  red. 
Blushed  through  the  spires  that  round  in  myriads 

sprung : 
A  silver  gleam  the  wind-stirred  poplars  flung 

O'er  Lombardy's  green  sea  below  me  spread. 
Of  these  I  little  saw.     In  trance  I  stood  ; 

Ere  death,  methought,  admitted  to  the  skies ; 
Around  me,  like  a  heavenly  multitude 

Crowning  some  specular  mount  of  Paradise, 
Thronged  that  angelic  concourse  robed  in  stone  ; 
The  sun,  ascending,  in  their  faces  shone ! 

Aubrey  de  Vere. 

THE    LAST   SUPPER 

{By  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  in  the   Refectory   of  the 
Convent  of  Maria  della  Grazia,  Milan) 

THO'  searching  damps  and  many  an  envious 
flaw 
Have  marred  this  Work ;  the  calm  ethereal  grace. 
The  love  deep-seated  in  the  Saviour's  face. 
The  mercy,  goodness,  have  not  failed  to  awe 
The  Elements ;  as  they  do  melt  and  thaw 
The  heart  of  the  Beholder — and  erase 
(At  least  for  one  rapt  moment)  every  trace 
Of  disobedience  to  the  primal  law. 
The  annunciation  of  the  dreadful  truth 

Made  to  the   Twelve,  survives:    lip,  forehead, 
cheek. 
And  hand  reposing  on  the  board  in  ruth 

Of  what  it  utters,  while  the  unguilty  seek 
Unquestionable  meanings — still  bespeak 
A  labour  worthy  of  eternal  youth  ! 

William  Wordsworth 


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SKIES   ITALIAN 


THE   PATRIOT 


IT  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way, 
With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like  mad, 
The  house-roofs  seemed  to  heave  and  sway. 

The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags  they  had, 
A  year  ago  on  this  very  day  ! 

The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells, 

The  old  walls  rocked  with  the  crowds  and  cries. 
Had  I  said,  "  Good  folks,  mere  noise  repels. 

But  give  me  your  sun  from  yonder  skies  ! " 
They  had  answered,  "  And  afterward,  what  else  ?  " 

Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun. 
To  give  it  my  loving  friends  to  keep. 

Naught  man  could  do  have  I  left  undone. 
And  you  see  my  harvest,  what  I  reap 

This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run. 

There's  nobody  on  the  house-tops  now, — 
Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows  set, — 

For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow. 
At  the  Shambles'  Gate, — or,  better  yet. 

By  the  very  scaffold's  foot,  I  trow. 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 
A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind. 

And  I  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead  bleeds. 
For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind. 

Stones  at  me,  for  my  year's  misdeeds. 


THE   FORCED  RECRUIT    59 

Thus  I  entered  Brescia,  and  thus  I  go  ! 

In  such  triumphs  people  have  dropped  down 
dead. 
"  Thou,  paid  by  the  world, — what  dost  thou  owe 
Me  ? "  God  might  have  questioned  ;  but  now 
instead 
'Tis  God  shall  requite  !     I  am  safer  so. 

Robert  Brouming 


THE   FORCED   RECRUIT 

{Solferino,  1859) 

IN  the  ranks  of  the  Austrian  you  found  him. 
He  died  with  his  face  to  you  all  ; 
Yet  bury  him  here  where  around  him 
You  honour  your  bravest  that  fall. 

Venetian,  fair-featured  and  slender. 
He  lies  shot  to  death  in  his  youth, 

With  a  smile  on  his  lips,  over-tender 
For  any  mere  soldier's  dead  mouth. 

No  stranger,  and  yet  not  a  traitor. 
Though  alien  the  cloth  on  his  breast, 

Underneath  it  how  seldom  a  greater 
Young  heart,  has  a  shot  sent  to  rest ! 

By  your  enemy  tortured  and  goaded 
To  march  with  them,  stand  in  their  file. 

His  musket  (see)  never  was  loaded. 
He  facing  your  guns  with  that  smile  ! 


60 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


As  orphans  yearn  on  to  their  mothers. 
He  yearned  to  your  patriot  bands  ; — 

'*  Let  me  die  for  our  Italy,  brothers. 
If  not  in  your  ranks,  by  your  hands  ! 

'^  Aim  straightly,  fire  steadily  !  spare  me 

A  ball  in  the  body  which  may 
Deliver  my  heart  here,  and  tear  me 

This  badge  of  the  Austrian  away  !  " 

So  thought  he,  so  died  he  this  morning. 

What  then  ?  many  others  have  died. 
Ay,  but  easy  for  men  to  die  scorning 

The     death-stroke,     who     fought    side    by 
side  : — 

One  tricolour  floating  above  them  ; 

Struck  down  'mid  triumphant  acclaims 
Of  an  Italy  rescued  to  love  them 

And  blazon  the  brass  with  their  names. 

But  he — without  witness  or  honour. 
There,  shamed  in  his  country's  regard. 

With  the  tyrants  who  march  in  upon  her, 
Died  faithful  and  passive  ;  'twas  hard. 

*Twas  sublime.     In  a  cruel  restriction 

Cut  off  from  the  guerdon  of  sons. 
With  most  filial  obedience,  conviction, 

His  soul  kissed  the  lips  of  her  guns. 

That  moves  you  ?     Nay,  grudge  not  to  show  it, 
While  digging  a  grave  for  him  here : 

The  others  who  died,  says  your  poet. 
Have  glory, — let  him  have  a  tear. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 


SIRMIO:    LAGO  DI  GARDA  61 

SIRMIO:    LAGO    DI   GARDA 

SWEET  Sirmio  !  thou,  the  very  eye 
Of  all  peninsulas  and  isles. 
That  in  our  lakes  of  silver  lie. 

Or  sleep,  enwreathed  by  Neptune's  smiles, — 

How  gladly  back  to  thee  I  fly ! 

Still  doubting,  asking, — can  it  be 
That  I  have  left  Bithynia's  sky. 

And  gaze  in  safety  upon  thee  .'* 

O,  what  is  happier  than  to  find 

Our  hearts  at  ease,  our  perils  past ; 

When,  anxious  long,  the  lightened  mind 
Lays  down  its  load  of  care  at  last ; 

When,  tired  with  toil  o'er  land  and  deep. 

Again  we  tread  the  welcome  floor 
Of  our  own  home,  and  sink  to  sleep 

On  the  long-wished-for  bed  once  more. 

This,  this  it  is,  that  pays  alone 

The  ills  of  all  life's  former  track. 
Shine  out,  my  beautiful,  my  own 

Sweet  Sirmio  !  greet  thy  master  back. 

And  thou,  fair  lake,  whose  water  quaffs 
The  light  of  heaven  like  Lydia's  sea, 
Rejoice,  rejoice, — let  all  that  laughs 
Abroad,  at  home,  laugh  out  for  me. 

CatulluSf 

tr.    Thomas  Moore 


62 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


il 


PESCHIERA 

WHAT  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall, 
Peschiera,  when  thy  bridge  I  crost, 
*'  'Tis  better  to  have  fought  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all." 

The  Tricolour,  a  trampled  rag, 
Lies,  dirt  and  dust ;  the  lines  I  track. 
By  sentries'  boxes  yellow  black, 
Lead  up  to  no  Italian  flag. 

I  see  the  Croat  soldier  stand 
Upon  the  grass  of  your  redoubts  ; 
The  eagle  with  his  black  wing  flouts 
The  breadth  and  beauty  of  your  land. 

Yet  not  in  vain,  although  in  vain, 
O,  men  of  Brescia  I  on  the  day 
Of  loss  past  hope,  I  heard  you  say 
Your  welcome  to  the  noble  pain. 

You  said  :  "  Since  so  it  is,  good  by. 
Sweet  life,  high  hope  ;  but  whatsoe'er 
May  be  or  must,  no  tongue  shall  dare 
To  tell,  '  The  Lombard  feared  to  die.'  " 

You  said  (there  shall  be  answer  fit)  : 
''  And  if  our  children  must  obey. 
They  must ;  but,  thinking  on  this  day, 
'Twill  less  debase  them  to  submit." 

You  said  (O,  not  in  vain  you  said) : 
"  Haste,  brothers,  haste,  while  yet  we  may  ; 
The  hours  ebb  fast  of  this  one  day. 
While  blood  may  yet  be  nobly  shed." 


THE   DAISY 


63 


Ah  !  not  for  idle  hatred,  not 
For  honour,  fame,  nor  self-applause, 
But  for  the  glory  of  the  cause, 
You  did  what  will  not  be  forgot. 

And  though  the  stranger  stand,  'tis  true. 
By  force  and  fortune's  right  he  stands, — 
By  fortune,  which  is  in  God's  hands. 
And  strength,  which  yet  shall  spring  in  you. 

This  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall, 
Peschiera,  when  thy  bridge  I  crost : 
"  'Tis  better  to  have  fought  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all." 

Arthur  Hugh  C/ough 


I 


THE   DAISY 

OLOVE,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine, — 
In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom. 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 

What  Roman  strength  Turbia  showed 
In  ruin  by  the  mountain  road  ; 

How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glowed. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 

To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters. 
That  only  heaved  with  a  summer  swell. 

What  slender  campanili  grew 

By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue ; 

Where,  here  and  there,  on  sandy  beaches 
A  milky-belled  amaryllis  blew. 


64 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


How  young  Columbus  seemed  to  rove. 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove, 

Now  watching  high  on  mountain  cornice, 
And  steering,  now,  from  a  purple  cove. 

Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean  s  rim 
Till,  in  a  narrow  street  and  dim, 

I  stayed  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  hun. 

Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most, 
Not  the  dipt  palm  of  which  they  boast ; 

But  distant  colour,  happy  hamlet, 
A  mouldered  citadel  on  the  coast. 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A  light  amid  its  olive  green  ; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean  ; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine. 

Where  oleanders  flushed  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread  ; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  the  mountain  head. 

We  loved  that  hall,  though  white  and  cold, 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 
A  princely  people's  awful  princes, 
The  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence,  too,  what  golden  hours 
In  those  long  galleries  were  ours  ; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  Cascine 
Or  walks  in  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 


THE    DAISY  65 

In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete. 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet. 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glittered, 
Through  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crossed  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a  plague  of  rain  ; 

Of  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma  ; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

And  stern  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  looked  the  Lombard  piles  ; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting, 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

O  Milan,  O  the  chanting  quires. 
The  giant  windows'  blazoned  fires, 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom,  the  glory  I 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires  ! 

I  climbed  the  roofs  at  break  of  day  ; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I  stood  among  the  silent  statues. 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly  flushed,  how  phantom-fair. 
Was  Monte  Rosa  hanging  there 

A  thousand  shadowy-pencilled  valleys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 

To  Como  ;  shower  and  storm  and  blast 

Had  blown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit. 
And  all  was  flooded ;  and  how  we  past 


N 


1 


66 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


THE   DAISY 


67 


hi; 


I 


From  Como,  when  the  light  was  j^ray, 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day, 

The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way, 

Like  ballad-burden  music,  kept, 
As  on  the  Lariano  crept 

To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept  ; 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watched  awake 
A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake. 

The  moonlight  touching  o'er  a  terrace 
One  tall  agave  above  the  lake. 

What  more  ?  we  took  our  last  adieu. 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew. 

But  ere  we  reached  the  highest  summit 
I  plucked  a  daisy,  I  gave  it  you. 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me. 
And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

O  love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea  ; 

So  dear  a  life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a  cry  for  gold  : 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I  found,  though  crushed  to  hard  and  dry. 
This  nursling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me. 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by  : 


And  I  forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 

The  gloom  that  saddens  heaven  and  earth. 

The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance  to  charm  a  vacant  brain. 

Perchance  to  dream  you  still  beside  me, 
My  fancy  flew  to  the  South  again. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


VENETIA 


VENETIA 

AT   VERONA 

HOW  steep  the  stairs  within  Kings'  houses 
are 
For  exile-wearied  feet  as  mine  to  tread, 
And  O  how  salt  and  bitter  is  the  bread 
Which  falls  from  this  Hound's  table,— better  far 
That  I  had  died  in  the  red  ways  of  war. 
Or  that  the  gate  of  Florence  bare  my  head, 
Than  to  live  thus,  by  all  things  comraded 
Which  seek  the  essence  of  my  soul  to  mar. 

"  Curse  God  and  die  ;  what  better  hope  than  this  ? 
He  hath  forgotten  thee  in  all  the  bliss 
Of  his  gold  city,  and  eternal  day  " — 

Nay  peace  :  behind  my  prison's  blinded  bars 
I  do  possess  what  none  can  take  away. 
My  love,  and  all  the  glory  of  the  stars. 

Oscar  Wilde 


111 


BROWNING  AT  ASOLO 

THIS  is  the  loggia  Browning  loved. 
High  on  the  flank  of  the  friendly  town ; 
These  are  the  hills  that  his  keen  eye  roved. 
The  green  like  a  cataract  leaping  down 
To  the  plain  that  his  pen  gave  new  renown. 

71 


I*" 


72 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


\ 


There  to  the  West  what  a  range  of  bhie  ! — 
The  very  background  Titian  drew 

To  his  peerless  Loves !     O  tranquil  scene  ! 
Who  than  thy  poet  fondlier  knew 

The  peaks  and  the  shore  and  the  lort*  between 

See  !  yonder's  his  Venice — the  valiant  Spire, 

Highest  one  of  the  perfect  three, 
Guarding  the  others  :  the  Palace  choir, 
The  Temple  flashing  with  opal  fire — 

Bubble  and  foam  of  the  sunlit  sea. 


Yesterday  he  was  part  of  it  all — 

Sat  here,  discerning  cloud  from  snow 
In  the  flush  of  the  Alpine  afterglow. 
Or  mused  on  the  vineyard  whose  wine-stirred 
row 

Meets  in  a  leafy  bacchanal. 

Listen  a  moment — how  oft  did  he  ! — 

To  the  bells  from  Fontalto's  distant  tower 

Leading  the  evening  in  .   .   .  ah,  me ! 

Here  breathes  the  whole  soul  of  Italy 

As  one  rose  breathes  with  the  breath  of  the 
bower. 


Sighs  were  meant  for  an  hour  like  this 
When  joy  is  keen  as  a  thrust  of  pain. 
Do  you  wonder  the  poet's  heart  should  miss 
This  touch  of  rapture  in  Nature's  kiss 
And  dream  of  Asolo  ever  again  ? 


"EX   LIBRIS  ' 


73 


«  Part  of  it  yesterday,"  we  moan  ? 

Nay,  he  is  part  of  it  now,  no  fear. 
What  most  we  love  we  are  that  alone. 
His  body  lies  under  the  Minster  stone. 

But  the  love  of  the  warm  heart  lingers  here. 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson 


DAWN    IN    ARQUA 

SICK  of  mere  fame,  and  of  Rome's  Laureate  leaf 
His  Liitin  Epic  brought  him,  up  he  went 
To  steep  Arqueto,  where  he  found  content 
Among  the  Euganean  Hills — alas,  too  brief! 
His  was  an  irremediable  grief: 

That  heart  so  loved,  that  head  so  opulent 
Of  gold,  were  long  since  dust.  .  .  .  Silent  he 
bent 
Above  those  Sonnets  in  that  Golden  Sheaf, 
Far  into  midnight,  lone  he  sat,  and  read — 
The  Rime  once  again — oh,  bitterest  tears 
By  age,  for  love  all  unrequited,  shed  ! — 
Then  in  that  volume  slowly  sank  his  head ; 

Thus,  in   the    mountain    cottage,  bowed   with 
years. 
At  early  morn  they  found  him,  cold  and  dead. 

Lloyd  Mifflin 


"EX    LIBRIS" 

IN  an  old  book  at  even  as  I  read 
Fast  fading  words  adown  my  shadowy  page, 
I  crossed  a  tale  of  how,  in  other  age 
At  Arqu^,  with  his  books  around  him,  sped 


74 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


The  word  to  Petrarch  ;  and  with  noble  head 
Bowed    gently    o'er    his    volume,    that    sweet 

sage 
To  Silence  paid  his  willing  seigniorage. 
And    they    who   found    him    whispered,  "  He  is 

dead ! " 
Thus  timely  from  old  comradeships  would  I 
To  Silence  also  rise.     Let  there  be  night, 
Stillness  and  only  these  staid  watchers  by, 

And  no  light  shine  save  my  low  study  light — 
Lest  of  his  kind  intent  some  human  cry 
Interpret  not  the  Messenger  aright. 

Arthur  Upson 


PETRARCH'S   TOMB 

THERE  is  a  tomb  in  Arqu^  ; — reared  in  air, 
Pillared  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 
The  bones  of  Laura's  lover  ;  here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes. 
The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.     He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  dull  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes ; 
Watering    the    tree    which    bears    his    lady's 
name 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 


They  kept  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died  ; 
The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 
Went  down  the  vale  of  years ;   and  'tis  their 

pride, — 
An  honest  pride, — and  let  it  be  their  praise. 


111 


PETRARCH'S   HOUSE       75 

To  offer  to  the  passing  stranger's  gaze 
His  mansion  and  his  sepulchre  ;  both  plain 
And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
Than  if  a  pyramid  formed  his  monumental  fane. 

Lord  Byron 

WRITTEN    IN    PETRARCH'S    HOUSE 

I3ETRARCH  !   I  would  that  there  might  be 
In  this  thy  household  sanctuary 
No  visible  monument  of  thee  : 

The  fount  that  whilom  jjlayed  before  thee, 
The  roof  that  rose  in  shelter  o'er  thee. 
The  low  fair  hills  that  still  adore  thee, — 

I  would  no  more  ;  thy  memory 
Must  loathe  all  cold  reality, 
Thought-worship  only  is  for  thee. 


They  say  thy  tomb  lies  there  below  ; 
What  want  I  with  the  marble  show  ? 
I  am  content, — I  will  not  go  : 

For  though  by  poesy's  high  grace 
Thou  saw'st,  in  thy  calm  resting-place, 
God,  love,  and  nature  face  to  face ; 

Yet  now  that  thou  are  wholly  free. 
How  can  it  give  delight  to  see 
That  sign  of  thy  captivity  .'' 

Lord  Houghton 


76  SKIES    ITxVLIAX 

TO   THE    RIV^ER    PO,   ON    QUITTING 

LAURA 

THOU  Po,  to  distant  realms  this  frame  mayst 
bear. 
On  thy  all-powerful,  thy  impetuous  tide ; 
But  the  free  spirit  that  within  doth  bide 
Nor  for  thy  might  nor  any  might  doth  care  : 
Not  varying  here  its  course,  nor  shifting  there, 
Upon  the  favouring  gale  it  joys  to  glide  : 
Plying  its  wings  toward  the  laurel's  pride. 
In  spite  of  sails  or  oars,  of  sea  or  air. 
Monarch  of  Hoods,  magnificent  and  strong, 
That  meet'st  the  sun  as  he  leads  on  the  day. 
But  in  the  west  dost  quit  a  fairer  light ; 
Thy  curved  course  this  body  wafts  along ; 
My  spirit  on  love's  pinions  speeds  its  way. 
And  to  its  darling  home  directs  its  flight  I 

Francesco  Petrarca, 

tr.  John  Nott 

STANZAS   TO   THE    PO 

RIVER,  that  rollest  by  the  ancient  walls. 
Where  dwells  the  lady  of  my  love,  when  she 
Walks  by  thy  brink,  and  there  perchance  recalls 
A  faint  and  fleeting  memory  of  me  ; 

What  if  thy  deep  and  ample  stream  should  be 
A  mirror  of  my  heart,  w  here  she  may  read 

The  thousand  thoughts  I  now  betray  to  thee. 
Wild  as  thy  wave,  and  headlong  as  thy  speed  I 


STANZAS   TO   THE   PO     77 

What  do  I  say,— a  mirror  of  my  heart  ? 

Are  not  thy  waters  sweeping,  dark,  and  strong  ? 
Such  as  my  feelings  were  and  are,  thou  art ; 

And  such  as  thou  art,  were  my  passions  long. 

Time   may    somewhat    have    tamed    them, — not 
forever ; 

Thou  overflow'st  thy  banks,  and  not  for  aye 
Thy  bosom  overboils,  congenial  river ! 

Thy  floods  subside,  and  mine  have  sunk  away, 

But  left  long  wrecks  behind,  and  now  again. 
Borne  in  our  old  unchanged  career,  we  move ; 

Thou  tendest  wildly  onwards  to  the  main, 
And  I — to  loving  one  I  should  not  love. 

The  current  I  behold  will  sweep  beneath 
Her  native  walls,  and  murmur  at  her  feet ; 

Her   eyes    will    look    on    thee,   when    she    shall 
breathe 
The  twilight  air  unharmed  by  summer's  heat. 

She  will  look  on  thee,— I  have  looked  on  thee, 
Full  of  that  thought ;  and  from  that  moment 
ne'er 

Thy  waters  could  I  dream  of,  name,  or  see, 
Without  the  inseparable  sigh  for  her ! 

Her  bright  eyes  will  be  imaged  in  thy  stream,— 
Yes !  they  will  meet  the  wave  I  gaze  on  now  : 

Mine  cannot  witness,  even  in  a  dream, 
That  happy  wave  repass  me  in  its  flow ! 


ill 


Y 


\ 


li  I 

I 

li 


78 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


The  wave  that  bears  my  tears  returns  no  more  : 
Will    she    return    by    whom    that    wave    shall 
sweep  ? — 

Both  tread  thy  banks,  both  wander  on  thy  shore. 
I  by  thy  source,  she  by  the  dark-blue  deep. 

But  that  which  keepeth  us  apart  is  not 

Distance,  nor  depth  of  wave,  nor  space  of  earth, 

But  the  distraction  of  a  various  lot. 
As  various  as  the  climates  of  our  birth. 

A  stranger  loves  the  lady  of  the  land. 

Born  far  beyond  the  mountains,  but  his  blood 

Is  all  meridian,  as  if  never  fanned 

By  the  black  wind  that  chills  the  polar  flood. 

My  blood  is  all  meridian  ;  were  it  not, 
I  had  not  left  my  clime,  nor  should  I  be, 

In  spite  of  tortures  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
A  slave  again  of  love, — at  least  of  thee. 

'Tis  vain  to  struggle, — let  me  perish  young, — 

Live  as  I  lived,  and  love  as  I  have  loved ; 
To  dust  if  I  return,  from  dust  I  sprung, 

And    then,   at    least,    my   heart   can   ne'er   be 
moved. 

lA)rd  Byron 

DANTE 

DANTE  am  I, — Minerva's  son,  who  knew 
With    skill    and    genius    (though    in    style 
obscure) 
And  elegance  maternal  to  mature 
My  toil,  a  miracle  to  mortal  view. 


1 

1 


BEATRICE 


79 


Through  realms  tartarean  and  celestial  flew 
xMy  lofty  fancy,  swift-winged  and  secure ; 
And  ever  shall  my  noble  work  endure. 
Fit  to  be  read  of  men,  and  angels  too. 
Florence  my  earthly  mother's  glorious  name  ; 
Step-dame   to   me, — whom   from   her  side  she 
thrust, 
Her  duteous  son  ;    bear  slanderous   tongues   the 
blame  ; 
Ravenna  housed  my  exile,  holds  my  dust ; 
My  spirit  is  with  him  from  whom  it  came, — 
A  j)arent  envy  cannot  make  unjust. 

Giovanni  Boccaccio, 

tr.  Francis  C.  Gray 


T 


BEATRICE 
VV'AS  in  Ravenna  Dante's  daughter  dwelt. 


Under  the  shadow  of  Saint  Stephen's  tower, 
Poor  and  forlorn,  her  name  the  only  dower 

From  him  beside  whose  tomb  she  often  knelt. 

Florence,  repenting  late,  compassion  felt, 

And  thence  one  day  a  stranger  came  with  gold. 
Which  to  the  nun,  so  saintly  and  so  cold. 

He  proffered  smiling,  while  his  heart  did  melt. 

No  other  than  Boccaccio  brought  the  gift. 
Who  as  a  son  revered  and  loved  her  sire ; 
And  when  she  did  her  hood  all  meekly  lift 

To  render  grateful  answer  and  retire, 

He  by  the  father's  portrait  knew  the  child, 
And   wept,   as   she   returned  her  thanks  and 
smiled. 

Henry  Sewell  Stokes 


i{ 


ry- 


80 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


ON    THE   TOMB   OF   GUIDAUELLO 
GUIDARELLI    AT    RAVENNA 

WITH  peace  at  last  and  silent  of  all  moan 
Far  from  the  busy  crowd  that  laughs  and 
weeps, 
In  darkness  and  in  stillness  and  alone, 

Here  Guidarello  Braccioforte  sleeps ; 
The  secret  tale,  the  polished  marble  stone 
Eloquently  impenetrable  keeps. 

Walter  IVihon  Greg 


VENICE 

WHITE  swan  of  cities,  slumbering  in  thy 
nest 
So  wonderfully  built  among  the  reeds 
Of  the  lagoon,  that  fences  thee  and  feeds, 
As  sayeth  thy  old  historian  and  thy  guest ! 
White  water-lily,  cradled  and  caressed 

By  ocean  streams,  and  from  the  silt  and  weeds 
Lifting  thy  golden  filaments  and  seeds, 
Thy  sun-illumined  spire,  thy  crown  and  crest ! 
White  phantom  city,  whose  untrodden  streets 
Are    rivers,   and    whose    pavements    are    the 

shifting 
Shadows  of  palaces  and  strips  of  sky  ; 
I  wait  to  see  thee  vanish  like  the  fleets 

Seen  in  mirage,  or  towers  of  cloud  uplifting 
In  air  their  unsubstantial  masonry. 

Heniy  Wadsivorth  Longfellow 


GOLDONI 


81 


VENICE 

THERE  seems  a  long,  eternal  Oh  !  to  dwell 
In  the  still  air  that  softly  breathes  around. 
Wafted   from   yonder    halls,    where   once    the 
sound 
Of  jest  and  revelry  was  wont  to  swell. 
She  dared  the  ages,  yet  Venetia  fell ; 

The    wheel    of   Fortune    hath    no    backward 

bound  ; 
Her  haven  is  desolate  ;  few  ships  are  found 
At  the  Slavonian  Quay,  once  known  so  well. 
How  didst  thou  once,  Venetia,  gorgeously 

Flaunt,  like  a  haughty  queen  in  gold  array, 
As  Paolo  Veronese  painted  thee  ! 

A  poet  on  the  Giant  Stair  to-day 
Lingers  beside  each  wondrous  balcony, 
His  tribute  of  a  fruitless  tear  to  pay. 

Graf  von  Platen, 

tr.  Thomas  Davidson 


GOLDONI 

GOLDONI — good,  gay,  sunniest  of  souls, — 
Glassing  half  V^enice  in  that  verse  of  thine, — 
What  though  it  just  reflect  the  shade  and  shine 
Of  common  life,  nor  render  as  it  rolls. 
Grandeur  and  gloom  ?     Sufficient  for  thy  shoals 
Was  Carnival ;  Parini's  depths  enshrine 
Secrets  unsuited  to  that  opaline 
Surface  of  things  which  laughs  along  thy  scrolls. 


82 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


tl 


ii| 


There  throng  the  people  :  how  they  come  and  go, 
Lisp  the  soft  language,  flaunt  the  bright  garb, 
— see, — 
On  Piazza,  Calle,  under  Portico 

And  over  Bridge  !     Dear  king  of  Comedy, 
Be  honoured  !  thou  that  didst  love  Venice  so, 
Venice,  and  we  who  love  her,  all  love  thee  ! 

Robert  Broivn'mg 

A    TOCCATA   OF   GALUPPI'S 

OH  Galuppi,  Baldassare,  this  is  very  sad  to 
find! 
I    can   hardly   misconceive  you  ;  it   would   prove 

me  deaf  and  blind  ; 
But  although  I  take  your  meaning,  'tis  with  such 
a  heavy  mind ! 

Here  you  come  with  your  old  music,  and  here's 

all  the  good  it  brings. 
What,  they  lived  once  thus  at  \'enice  where  the 

merchants  were  the  kings, 
Where  St  Mark's  is,  where    the  Doges  used  to 

wed  the  sea  with  rings  ? 

Ay,  because  the  sea's  the  street  there ;  and  'tis 

arched  by  .   .   .  what  you  call 
.  .  .  Shylock's  bridge  with  houses  on  it,  where 

they  kept  the  carnival : 
I  was  never  out  of  England — it's  as  if  I  saw  it  all. 

Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure  when  the 

sea  was  warm  in  May  ? 
Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning  ever 

to  mid-day. 
When   they  made   up  fresh  adventures  for   the 

morrow,  do  you  say  ? 


\ 


A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPI'S    83 

Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round  and 
lips  so  red, — 

On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a  bell- 
flower  on  its  bed. 

O'er  the  breast's  superb  abundance  where  a  man 
might  base  his  head  ? 

Well,  and  it  was  graceful  of  them — they'd  break 

talk  off  and  afford 
— She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet — he,  to 

finger  on  his  sword, 
While  you  sat  and  played  Toccatas,  stately  at  the 

clavichord  ? 

What  ?     Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,  sixths 

diminished,  sigh  on  sigh, 
Told  them  something  ?     Those  suspensions,  those 

solutions — "  Must  we  die  ?  " 
Those   commiserating    sevenths  —  **  Life    might 

last !  we  can  but  try  !  " 

"Were  you  happy?" — "Yes." — "And  are  you 
still  as  happy  ? " — "  Yes.     And  you  }  " 

— '*  Then,  more  kisses  !  " — "  Did  /  stop  them, 
when  a  million  seemed  so  few  ?  " 

Hark,  the  dominant's  persistence  till  it  must  be 
answered  to ! 

So,   an    octave   struck    the    answer.     Oh,    they 

praised  you,  I  dare  say  ! 
"  Brave  Galuppi  I  that  was  music !  good  alike  at 

grave  and  gay  ! 
I  can  always   leave  off  talking,   when   I   hear  a 

master  play  !  " 


[| 


84 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


li 


Then  they  left  you  for  their  pleasure  :  till  in  due 

time,  one  by  one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,  some  with 

deeds  as  well  undone. 
Death  stepped  tacitly  and  took  them  where  they 

never  see  the  sun. 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  think  to  take  my 

stand  nor  swerve. 
While  I  triumph  o'er  a  secret  wrung  from  nature's 

close  reserve, 
In  you  come   with  your  cold  music  till  1   creep 

through  every  nerve. 

Yes,  you,  like  a  ghostly  cricket,  creaking  where 

a  house  was  bunied  : 
"  Dust  and  ashes,  dead   and   done    with,   Venice 

spent  what  Venice  earned. 
The  soul,   doubtless,  is  immortal — where   a  soul 

can  be  discerned. 

"  Yours  for  instance  :  you  know  physics,  some- 
thing of  geology, 

Mathematics  are  your  pastime  ;  souls  shall  rise 
in  their  degree ; 

Butterflies  may  dread  extinction, — you'll  not  die, 
it  cannot  be ! 

"As  for  Venice  and  her  people,  merely  born  to 

bloom  and  drop. 
Here  on  earth  they  bore   their   fruitage,  mirth 

and  folly  were  the  crop : 
What  of  soul  was  left,  I  wonder,  when  the  kissing 

had  to  stop  ? 


FORGOTTEN   TUNES        85 

'^  Dust  and  ashes  ! "     So  you  creak  it,  and  I  want 

the  heart  to  scold. 
Dear  dead  women,   with   such  hair,   too — what's 

become  of  all  the  gold 
Used  to  hang  and  brush   their  bosoms  ?     I  feel 

chilly  and  grown  old. 

Robert  Browning 


A  BALLADE  OF  FORGOITEN  TUNES 

{To  V.  L.) 

FORGOTTEN  seers  of  lost  repute, 
That  haunt  the  banks  of  Acheron, 
Where  have  you  dropped  the  broken  lute 
You  played  in  Troy  or  Calydon  ? 
O  ye  that  sang  in  Babylon 
By  foreign  willows  cold  and  grey, 

Fall'n  are  the  harps  ye  hanged  thereon, 
Dead  are  the  tunes  of  yesterday  ! 

De  Coucy,  is  your  music  mute, 

The  quaint  old  plain-chant  woe-begone 
That  served  so  many  a  lover's  suit } 

Oh,  dead  as  Adam  or  Guedron ! 

Then,  sweet  De  Caurroy,  try  upon 
Your  virginals  a  virelay  ; 

Or  play,  Orlando,  one  pavonne — 
Dead  are  the  tunes  of  yesterday  ! 

But  ye  whose  praises  none  refute. 

Who  have  the  immortal  laurel  won  ; — 

Trill  me  your  quavering  close  acute, 
Astorga,  dear  unhappy  Don  ! 


86 


SKIES   ITALIAN 

One  air,  Galuppi !  Sarti,  one 
So  many  fingers  used  to  play ! 

Dead  as  the  ladies  of  \'illon, 
Dead  are  the  times  of  yesterday  ! 


En\ 


>oy 


Vernon,  in  vain  you  stoop  to  con 
The  slender,  faded  notes  to-day — 

The  Soul  that  dwelt  in  them  is  gone  : 
Dead  are  the  tunes  of  t/esterday  ! 

A.  Marif  F.  Uohinson 


AN   OLD   VENETIAN   WINE-GLASS  ROSE- 
COLOURED   AT   THE    BRIM 

DAUGHTER  of  Venice,  fairer  than  the  moon  ! 
From  thy  dark  casement  leaning,  half  divine. 

And  to  the  lutes  of  love  that  low  repine 
Across  the  midnight  of  the  hushed  lagoon 
Listening  with  languor  in  a  dreamful  swoon — 

On  such  a  night  as  this  thou  didst  entwine 

Thy  lily  fingers  round  this  glass  of  wine. 
Didst  clasp  thy  climbing  lover — none  too  soon  ! 
Thy  lover  left,  but  ere  he  left  thy  room 

From  this  he  drank,  his  warm  lips  at  the  brim  . 
Thou  kissed  it  as  he  vanished  in  the  gloom ; 

That  kiss,  because  of  thy  true  love  for  him — 
Long,  long  ago,  when  thou  wast  in  thy  bloom — 

Hath  left  it  ever  rosy  round  the  rim  ! 

Lloyd  Mifflin 


,» ., 


FEEDING  THE  PIGEONS    87 


VENICE   BY    DAY 

THE  splendour  of  the  Orient,  here  of  old 
Throned  with    the    West,  upon  a  waveless 

sea. 
Her  various-vested,  resonant  jubilee 
Maintains,  though  Venice  hath  been  bought  and 

sold. 
In  their  high  stalls  of  azure  and  of  gold 

Yet  stand,  above  the  servile  concourse  free. 
Those  brazen  steeds,— the  Car  of  Victory 
Hither  from  far  Byzantium's  porch  that  rolled. 
The  winged  Lions,  Time's  dejected  thralls, 

Glare  with  furled  plumes.     The  pictured  shapes 
that  glow 
Like  sunset  clouds  condensed  upon  the  walls. 
Still  boast  old  wars,  or  feasts  of  long  ago  ; 
And  still  the  sun  his  amplest  glory  pours 
On  all  those  swelling  domes  and  watery  floors. 

Aubrey  de  J 'ere 


FEEDING    THE    PIGEONS 

(^Venice) 

SHE  is  a  chrysolite  !  her  manners,  too. 
Are  pure  Venetian,  haughty,  yet  endearing. 
Didst  ever  see,  my  Claudio,  such  a  bearing  ? 
Just  watch  her  as  the  pigeons  round  her  woo 
For  more  caresses, — voice  like  some  dove's  coo ! 
And  with  that  face  so  saint-like  yet  so  daring— 
By  Bacchus  !  as  they  say  here  in  your  swearings 
She  is  as  perfect  as  a  drop  of  dew  ! 


IH 


88 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


;     '4 


Yet  she  is  of  the  South — the  counterpart 
Of  vengeance  with  its  hidden  venomed  dart  .  .  . 
Hush  !    for    the  gargoyles  hear !  .  .  .  Though 

white  as  curds, 
That  sweet  soft  hand — that  hand  that  feeds  the 

birds — 
If  you  should  hint  about  it  certain  words, 
Would  plunge  its  poisoned  poniard  through  y^^jr 
heart. 

« 

Lloyd  MiJ/lih 


VENICE   IN   THE   EVENING 


ALAS  !  mid  all  this  pomp  of  the  ancient  time, 
And  flush  of  modern  pleasure,  dull  Decay 
O'er  the  bright  pageant  breathes  her  shadowy 
gray. 
As  on  from  bridge  to  bridge  I  roam  and  climb. 
It  seems  as  though  some  wonder-working  chime 
(Whose   spell    the    vision   raised  and  still   can 

sway) 
To  some  far  source  were  ebbing  fast  away  ; 
As  though,  by  man  unheard,  with  voice  sublime 
It  bade  the  sea-born  Queen  of  Cities  follow 

Her  sire  into  his  watery  realm  far  down — 
Beneath  my  feet  the  courts  sound  vast  and  hollow ; 
And   more    than   evening's   darkness  seems  to 
frown 
On  sable  barks  that,  swift  yet  trackless,  fleet 
Like   dreams   o'er   dim    lagune    and    watery 
street. 

Aubrey  de  Vere 


IN    VENICE 


89 


IN   VENICE 

"  Venite  all'  agile, 
Barchetta  mia, 
Santa  Lucia, 
Santa  Lucia ! " 


Venetian  Song 


I   SAIL  adown  thy  silvery  street 
What  time  the  night  and  moonlight  meet 
Thy  white  bare  breast  heaves  soft  below. 
To  music's  languid  overflow, 
Venezia ! 

1  hear  the  choruses  afar, 
Where  palaces  and  churches  are ; 
Their  voices  mingle  with  the  hours 
Pealed  forth  from  thy  electric  towers, 
Venezia  ! 

One  song  they  sang  night  after  night 
Too  rapt  to  'scape  from  its  delight ; 
Thy  shining  ways  forever  hear 
How  well  thou  lovest  thy  Lucia, 
Venezia ! 

I  know  not  who  this  saint  may  be. 
And  yet  her  lovely  face  I  see. 
Bending  above  me  fair  and  sweet. 
What  time  the  night  and  moonlight  meet, 
Venezia ! 

The  gondolas  move  to  and  fro, 
Silenter  than  thy  waters  go. 
They  would  not  breathe  because  their  breath 
Might  send  that  lovely  face  to  death, 
Venezia ! 


*  vl 


I 


90  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Thy  soul  that  face  will  keep  and  save, 
Though  Tintoret  be  in  his  grave ! 
Because  it  is  the  supreme  thing 
Of  which  thy  sons  and  lovers  sing, 
Venezia ! 

Forever  from  thy  stately  doors 
This  steadfast  flood  of  music  pours. 
Till  all  thy  brooding  palaces 
Cease  dreaming  of  their  bygone  days, 
V^enezia ! 

And  high  above  thy  sculptured  stairs, 
Above  thy  great  San  Marco's  prayers. 
Rises  to  put  thy  prayers  to  shame, 
Lucia's  name,  Lucia's  name, 
Venezia ! 

Cora  Kenned  If  Aitken 


WHEN   THROUGH    THE    PIAZZETTA 

WHEN  through  the  Piazzetta 
Night  breathes  her  cool  air, 
Then,  dearest  Ninetta, 

I'll  come  to  thee  there. 
Beneath  thy  mask  shrouded, 

I'll  know  thee  afar. 
As  Love  knows,  though  clouded. 
His  own  Evening  Star. 

In  garb,  then,  resembling 

Some  gay  gondolier, 
I'll  whisper  thee,  trembling, 

"  Our  bark,  love,  is  near  : 


THE  PIAZZA  OF  ST  MARK    91 

Now,  now,  while  there  hover 
Those  clouds  o'er  the  moon, 

'Twill  waft  thee  safe  over 
Yon  silent  Lagoon." 

Thomas  Moore 


I 


THE    PIAZZA   OF   ST    MARK    AT 
MIDNIGHT 

HUSHED  is  the  music,  hushed  the  hum  of 
voices ; 
Gone  is  the  crowd  of  dusky  promenaders— 
Slender-waisted,  almond-eyed  Venetians, 
Princes  and  paupers.     Not  a  single  footfall 
Sounds  in  the  arches  of  the  Procuratie. 
One  after  one,  like  sparks  of  cindered  paper, 
Faded  the  lights  out  in  the  goldsmiths'  windows. 
Drenched    with    the    moonlight    lies    the    still 
Piazza. 

Fair  as  the  palace  builded  for  Aladdin, 
Yonder  St  Mark  uplifts  its  sculptured  splendour- 
Intricate  fretwork,  Byzantine  mosaic, 
Colour  on  colour,  column  upon  column. 
Barbaric,  wonderful,  a  thing  to  kneel  to ! 
Over  the  portal  stand  the  four  gilt  horses. 
Gilt  hoof  in  air,  and  wide  distended  nostril. 
Fiery,  untamed,  as  in  the  days  of  Nero. 
Skyward,    a    cloud    of    domes    and    spires    and 

crosses  * 
Earthward,   black    shadows   flung    from    jutting 

stone-work. 
High  over  all  the  slender  Campanile 
Quivers,  and  seems  a  falling  shaft  of  silver  ! 


92 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


ii 


Hushed     is    the     music,    hushed    the    hum    of 

voices, 
From  coigne  and  cornice  and  fantastic  gargoyle, 
At  intervals  the  moan  of  dove  or  pigeon. 
Fairly  faint,  floats  off  into  the  moonlight. 
This,  and  the  murmur  of  the  Adriatic, 
Lazily  restless,  lapping  the  mossed  marble. 
Staircase  or  buttress,  scarcely  breaks  the  stillness 
Deeper  each  moment  seems  to  grow  the  silence. 
Denser  the  moonlight  in  the  still  Piazza. 
Hark !  on  the  tower  above  the  ancient  gateway. 
The  twin  bronze  V^ulcans,  with  their  ponderous 

hammers. 
Hammer   the    midnight    on    their    brazen    bell 

there ! 

Thomas  Bailey  A  Id  rich 


VENETIAN    NOCTURNE 

DOWN  in  the  narrow  Calle  where  the  moon- 
light cannot  enter. 

The  houses  are  so  high  ; 
Silent   and   alone    we    pierced    the    night's    dim 
core  and  centre — 

Only  you  and  I. 


Clear   and    sad   our    footsteps    rang    along    the 
hollow  pavement, 

Sounding  like  a  bell ; 
Sounding  like  a  voice  that  cries  to  souls  in  Life's 
enslavement, 

**  There  is  death  as  well !  " 


vV 


VENICE 


93 


Down  the  narrow  dark  we  went,  until  a  sudden 

whiteness 

Made  us  hold  our  breath  ; 
All  the  white  Salute's  towers  and  domes  in  moon- 
lit brightness, — 

Ah  !  could  this  be  Death  ? 

A.  Mary  F.  Robinson 

ROW    GENTLY    HERE 

ROW  gently   here,  my  gondolier;   so  softly 
wake  the  tide. 
That  not  an  ear  on  earth  may  hear,  but  hers  to 

whom  we  glide. 
Had   heaven    but    tongues   to  speak,  as   well  as 

starry  eyes  to  see, 
O,  think    what  tales    'twould    have    to    tell     of 
wandering  youths  like  me  ! 

Now  rest  thee  here,  my  gondolier ;   hush,  hush, 

for  up  1  go. 
To  climb  yon  light  balcony's  height,  while  thou 

keep'st  watch  below. 
Ah  !  did  we  take  for  heaven  above  but  half  such 

pains  as  we 
Take    day    and    night    for    woman's   love,    what 

angels  we  should  be  ! 

Thomas  Moore 

VENICE 


il 


,  I 


NIGHT  on  the  Adriatic,  night! 
And  like  a  mirage  of  the  plain, 
With  all  her  marvellous  domes  of  light. 
Pale  Venice  looms  along  the  main. 


II! 


il' 


94 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


No  sound  from  the  receding  shore, 
No  sound  from  all  the  broad  lagoon. 

Save  where  the  light  and  springing  oar 
Brightens  our  track  beneath  the  moon ; 

Or  save  where  yon  high  campanile 
Gives  to  the  listening  sea  its  chime ; 

Or  where  those  dusky  giants  wheel 
And  smite  the  ringing  helm  of  Time. 

'Tis  past, — and  Venice  droops  to  rest ; 

Alas  I  hers  is  a  sad  repose. 
While  in  her  brain  and  on  her  breast 

Tramples  the  vision  of  her  foes. 

Erewhile  from  her  sad  dream  of  pain 

She  rose  upon  her  native  flood, 
And  struggled  with  the  Tyrant's  chain. 

Till  every  link  was  stained  with  blood. 

The  Austrian  pirate,  wounded,  sj)urned, 
Fled  howling  to  the  sheltering  shore. 

But,  gathering  all  his  crew,  returned 

And  bound  the  Ocean  Queen  once  more. 

Tis  past, — and  V^enice  prostrate  lies, — 
And,  snarling  round  her  couch  of  woes. 

The  watch-dogs,  with  the  jealous  eyes. 
Scowl  where  the  stranger  comes  and  goes. 

II 

Lo  !  here  awhile  suspend  the  oar ; 

Rest  in  the  Mocenigo's  shade. 
For  Genius  hath  within  this  door 

His  charmed,  though  transient,  dwelling  made. 


VENICE 


95 


Somewhat  of  "  Harold's  "  spirit  yet, 

Methinks,  still  lights  these  crumbling  walls  ; 

For  where  the  flame  of  song  is  set 
It  burns,  though  all  the  temple  falls. 

Oh,  tell  me  not  those  days  were  given 
To  Passion  and  her  pampered  brood ; 

Or  that  the  eagle  stoops  from  heaven 
To  dye  his  talons  deep  in  blood. 

1  hear  alone  his  deathless  strain 

From  sacred  inspiration  won. 
As  I  would  only  watch  again 

The  eagle  when  he  nears  the  sun. 

Ill 

O,  would  some  friend  were  near  me  now. 
Some  friend  well  tried  and  cherished  long, 

To  share  the  scene  ;  but  chiefly  thou. 
Sole  source  and  object  of  my  song. 

By  Olivola's  dome  and  tower. 

What  joy  to  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine. 

While  through  my  heart  this  sacred  hour 
Thy  voice  should  melt  like  mellow  wine. 

What  time  or  place  so  fit  as  this 

To  bid  the  gondolier  withhold, 
And  dream  through  one  soft  age  of  bliss 

The  olden  story,  never  old  ? 

The  domes  suspended  in  the  sky 
Swim  all  above  me  broad  and  fair ; 

And  in  the  wave  their  shadows  lie, — 
Twin  phantoms  of  the  sea  and  air. 


96 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


l<l' 


O'er  all  the  scene  a  halo  plays, 
Slow  fading,  but  how  lovely  yet ; 

For  here  the  brightness  of  past  days 
Still  lingers,  though  the  sun  is  set. 

Oft  in  my  bright  and  boyish  hours 
I  lived  in  dreams  what  now  I  live, 

And  saw  these  palaces  and  towers 
In  all  the  light  romance  can  give. 

They  rose  along  my  native  stream. 

They  charmed  the  lakelet  in  the  glen ; 

But  in  this  hour  the  waking  dream 

More  frail  and  dreamlike  seems  than  then. 

A  matchless  scene,  a  matchless  night, 

A  tide  below,  a  moon  above ; 
An  hour  for  music  and  delight, 

For  gliding  gondolas  and  love  I 

But  here,  alas  !  you  hark  in  vain, — 
When  Venice  fell  her  music  died ; 

And  voiceless  as  a  funeral  train. 

The  blackened  barges  swim  the  tide. 

The  harp  which  Tasso  loved  to  wake, 
Hangs  on  the  willow  where  it  sleeps. 

And  while  the  light  strings  sigh  or  break 
Pale  V^enice  by  the  water  weeps. 

IV 

'Tis  past,  and  weary  droops  the  wing 
That  thus  hath  borne  me  idly  on  ; 

The  thoughts  I  have  essayed  to  sing 
Are  but  as  bubbles  touched  and  gone. 


VENICE 

But,  Venice,  cold  his  soul  must  be, 
Who,  looking  on  thy  beauty,  hears 

The  story  of  thy  wrongs,  if  he 

Is  moved  to  neither  song  nor  tears. 


97 


To  glide  by  temples  fair  and  proud. 
Between  deserted  marble  walls. 

Or  see  the  hireling  foeman  crowd 
Rough-shod  her  noblest  palace  halls ; 


r 


To  know  her  left  to  vandal  foes 

Until  her  nest  be  robbed  and  gone ; 

To  see  her  bleeding  breast,  which  shows 
How  dies  the  Adriatic  swan ; 


To  know  that  all  her  wings  are  shorn. 
That  Fate  has  written  her  decree, 

That  soon  the  nations  here  shall  mourn 
The  lone  Palmyra  of  the  sea, 


Where  waved  her  vassal  flags  of  yore 
By  valour  in  the  Orient  won ; 

To  see  the  Austrian  vulture  soar, 
A  blot  against  the  morning  sun ; 


i 


To  hear  a  rough  and  foreign  speech 
Commanding  the  old  ocean  mart, — 

Are  mournful  sights  and  sounds  that  reach. 
And  wake  to  pity,  all  the  heart. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read 


\ 


r 


98 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


VENICE 

ON  rosy  Venice'  breast 
The  gondola's  at  rest ; 
No  fisher  is  in  sight. 
Not  a  light. 

Lone  seated  on  the  strand, 
Uplifts  the  lion  grand 
His  foot  of  bronze  on  high 
Against  the  sky. 

As  if  with  resting  wing 
Like  herons  in  a  ring, 
Vessels  and  shallops  keep, 
Their  quiet  sleep. 

Upon  the  vapoury  bay  ; 
And  when  the  light  winds  play, 
Their  pennons,  lately  whist. 
Cross  in  the  mist. 

The  moon  is  now  concealed. 
And  now  but  half  revealed. 
Veiling  her  face  so  pale 
With  starry  veil. 

In  convent  of  Sainte-Croix 
Thus  doth  the  abbess  draw 
Her  ample-folded  cape 
Round  her  fair  shape. 


IN  A   GONDOLA  99 

The  palace  of  the  knight, 
The  staircases  so  white. 
The  solemn  porticos 
Are  in  repose. 

Each  bridge  and  thoroughfare. 
The  gloomy  statues  there, 
The  gulf  which  trembles  so 
When  the  winds  blow. 

All  still,  save  guards  who  pace, 
With  halberds  long,  their  space. 
Watching  the  battled  walls 

Of  arsenals. 
•  •  •  ■  • 

Alfred  de  Mussef, 

tr.  C.  F.  Bates 

IN    A    GONDOLA 
He  sings 

1SEND  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my  heart 
In  this  my  singing. 
For  the  stars  help  me,  and  the  sea  bears  part ; 

The  very  night  is  clinging 
Closer  to  Venice'  streets  to  leave  one  space 

Above  me,  whence  thy  face 
May  light  my  joyous  heart  to  thee  its  dwelling- 
place. 

She  speaks 

Say  after  me,  and  try  to  say 
My  very  words,  as  if  each  word 
Came  from  you  of  your  own  accord. 
In  your  own  voice,  in  your  own  way : 


If 


100 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


fi   f 


H\ 


"  This  woman's  heart  and  soul  and  brain 
Are  mine  as  much  as  this  gold  chain 
She  bids  me  wear;  which  "  (say  again) 
"  I  choose  to  make  by  cherishing 
A  precious  thing,  or  choose  to  fling 
Over  the  boat-side,  ring  by  ring." 
And  yet  once  more  say  ...  no  word  more  I 
Since  words  are  only  words.     Give  o'er ! 

Unless  you  call  me,  all  the  same, 

Familiarly  by  my  pet  name, 

Which  if  the  Three  should  hear  you  call 

And  me  reply  to,  would  proclaim 

At  once  our  secret  to  them  all. 

Ask  of  me,  too,  command  me,  blame — 

Do,  break  down  the  partition-wall 

'Twixt  us,  the  daylight  world  beholds 

Curtained  in  dusk  and  splendid  folds ! 

What's  left  but — all  of  me  to  take  ? 

I  am  the  Three's  :  prevent  them,  slake 

Your  thirst !     'Tis  said,  the  Arab  sage. 

In  practising  with  gems,  can  loose 

Their  subtle  spirit  in  his  cruce 

And  leave  but  ashes :  so,  sweet  mage. 

Leave  them  my  ashes  when  thy  use 

Sucks  out  my  soul,  thy  heritage  ! 

He  sifigs 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past ! 

What's  that  j)oor  Agnese  doing 
Where  they  make  the  shutters  fast  ? 

Gray  Zanobi's  just  a-wooing 
To  his  couch  the  purchased  bride : 

Past  we  glide ! 


IN  A   GONDOLA 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past ! 

Why's  the  Pucci  Palace  flaring 
Like  a  beacon  to  the  blast  ? 

Guests  by  hundreds,  not  one  caring 
If  the  dear  liost's  neck  were  wried. 

Past  we  glide ! 

She  sings 

The  moth's  kiss,  first ! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 

How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 

Its  petals  up ;  so,  here  and  there 

You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 

Who  wants  me,  and  wide  ope  I  burst. 

The  bee's  kiss,  now  ! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday, 
A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up. 
And  passively  its  shattered  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 


101 


I 


t  i 


He 


sings 


What  are  we  two  ? 

I  am  a  .Jew, 

And  carry  thee,  farther  than  friends  can  pursue, 

To  a  feast  of  our  tribe  ; 

Where  they  need  thee  to  bribe 

The  devil  that  blasts  them  unless  he  imbibe 

Thy  .   .   .  Scatter  the  vision  forever !     And  now. 

As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou  I 


102 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


Say  again,  what  we  are  ? 

The  sprite  of  a  star, 

I  lure  thee  above  where  the  destinies  bar 

My  plumes  their  full  play 

Till  a  ruddier  ray 

Than  my  pale  one  announce  there  is  withering 
away 

Some    .    .    .    Scatter   the    vision   forever!      And 

now, 
As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou  ! 


He  muses 

Oh,  which  were  best,  to  roam  or  rest  ? 
The  land's  lap  or  the  water's  breast  ? 
To  sleep  on  yellow  millet-sheaves 
Or  swim  in  lucid  shallows  just 
Eluding  water-lily  leaves. 
An  inch  from  Death's  black  fingers,  thrust 
To  lock  you,  whom  release  he  must ; 
Which  life  were  best  on  Summer  eves  ? 


I 


He  speaks y  musing 

Lie  back  ;  could  thought  of  mine  improve  you  ? 
From  this  shoulder  let  there  spring 
A  wing  ;  from  this,  another  wing  ; 
Wings,  not  legs  and  feet,  shall  move  you  ! 
Snow-white  must  they  spring,  to  blend 
With  your  flesh,  but  I  intend 
They  shall  deepen  at  the  end. 


IN   A   GONDOLA 

Broader,  into  burning  gold. 
Till  both  wings  crescent-wise  enfold 
Your  perfect  self,  from  'neath  your  feet 
To  o'er  your  head,  where,  lo,  they  meet 
As  if  a  million  sword-blades  hurled 
Defiance  from  you  at  the  world  ! 

Rescue  me  thou,  the  only  real ! 
And  scare  away  this  mad  ideal  ! 
That  came,  nor  motions  to  depart ! 
Thanks !     Now,  stay  ever  as  thou  art ! 


Still  he  7uuses 

What  if  the  Three  should  catch  at  last 
Thy  serenader  ?     While  there's  cast 
Paul's  cloak  about  my  head,  and  fast 
Gian  pinions  me.  Himself  has  past 
His  stylet  through  my  back  ;   I  reel ; 
And  ...  is  it  thou  I  feel  ? 

They  trail  me,  these  three  godless  knaves, 
Past  every  church  that  saints  and  saves. 
Nor  stop  till,  where  the  cold  sea  raves 
By  Lido's  wet  accursed  graves. 
They  scoop  mine,  roll  me  to  its  brink. 
And  ...  on  thy  breast  I  sink ! 


She  replies,  musing 

Dip  your  arm  o'er  the  boat-side,  elbow-deep, 
As  I  do :  thus  :  were  death  so  unlike  sleep. 


103 


I   ! 


/^ 


104 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


Caught  this  way?     Death's  to  fear  from  flame  or 

steel, 
Or  poison  doubtless  ;  but  from  water— feel ! 
Go    find    the    bottom!       Would     you    stay    me? 

There  ! 
Now  pluck  a  great  blade  of  that  ribbon-grass 
To  plait  in  where  the  foolish  jewel  was, 
I  flung  away  :  since  you  have  praised  my  hair, 
'Tis  proper  to  be  choice  in  what  I  wear. 


He  speaks 

Row  home  ?  must  we  row  home  ?     Too  surely 

Know  I  where  its  front's  demurely 

Over  the  Giudecca  piled  ; 

Window  just  with  window  mating, 

Door  on  door  exactly  waiting, 

All's  the  set  face  of  a  child  : 

But  behind  it,  where's  a  trace 

Of  the  staidness  and  reserve, 

And  formal  lines  without  a  curve. 

In  the  same  child's  playing-face  ? 

No  two  windows  look  one  way 

O'er  the  small  sea-water  thread 

Below  them.     Ah,  the  autumn  day 

I,  passing,  saw  you  overheard  ! 

First,  out  a  cloud  of  curtain  blew, 

Then  a  sweet  cry,  and  last  came  you — 

To  catch  your  lory  that  must  needs 

Escape  just  then,  of  all  times  then, 

To  peck  a  tall  plant's  fleecy  seeds, 

And  make  me  happiest  of  men. 


IN    A    GONDOLA  105 

I  scarce  could  breathe  to  see  you  reach 

So  far  back  o'er  the  balcony 

To  catch  him  ere  he  climed  too  high 

Above  you  in  the  Smyrna  peach. 

That  quick  the  round  smooth  cord  of  gold, 

This  coiled  hair  on  your  head,  unrolled 

Fell  down  you  like  a  gorgeous  snake 

The  Roman  girls  were  wont,  of  old. 

When  Rome  there  was,  for  coolness'  sake 

To  let  lie  curling  o'er  their  bosoms. 

Dear  lory,  may  his  beak  retain 

Ever  its  delicate  rose  stain 

As  if  the  wounded  lotos-blossoms 

Had  marked  their  thief  to  know  again  ! 

Stay  longer  yet,  for  others'  sake 

Than  mine  !     What  should  your  chamber  do  ? 

— With  all  its  rarities  that  ache 

In  silence  while  day  lasts,  but  wake 

At  night-time  and  their  life  renew. 

Suspended  just  to  pleasure  you 

Who  brought  against  their  will  together 

These  objects,  and,  while  day  lasts,  weave 

Around  them  such  a  magic  tether 

That  dumb  they  look :  your  harp,  believe. 

With  all  the  sensitive  tight  strings 

Which  dare  not  speak,  now  to  itself 

Breathes  slumbrouslv,  as  if  some  elf 

Went  in  and  out  the  chords,  his  wings 

Make  murmur  wheresoe'er  they  graze. 

As  an  angel  may,  between  the  maze 

Of  midnight  palace-pillars,  on 

And  on,  to  sow  God's  plagues,  have  gone 

Through  guilty  glorious  Babylon. 


106  SKIES    ITALIAN 

And  while  such  murmurs  flow,  the  nymph 

Bends  o'er  the  harp- top  from  her  shell 

As  the  dry  limpet  for  the  lymph 

Come  with  a  tune  he  knows  so  well. 

And  how  your  statues'  hearts  must  swell  ! 

And  how  your  pictures  must  descend 

To  see  each  other,  friend  with  friend  ! 

Oh,  could  you  take  them  by  surprise. 

You'd  find  Schidone's  eager  Duke 

Doing  the  quaintest  courtesies 

To  that  prim  saint  by  Haste-thec-Luke  ! 

And,  deeper  into  her  rocky  den. 

Bold  Castelfranco's  Magdalen 

You'd  find  retreated  from  the  ken 

Of  that  robed  counsel-keeping  Ser— 

As  if  the  Tizian  thinks  of  her, 

And  is  not,  rather,  gravely  bent 

On  seeing  for  himself  what  toys 

Are  these,  his  progeny  invent. 

What  litter  now  the  board  employs 

Whereon  he  signed  a  document 

That  got  him  murdered  !     Each  enjoys 

Its  night  so  well,  you  cannot  break 

The  sport  up,  so,  indeed  must  make 

More  stay  with  me,  for  others'  sake. 

She  speaks 

To-morrow,  if  a  harp-string,  say, 
Is  used  to  tie  the  jasmine  back 
That  overfloods  my  room  with  sweets. 
Contrive  your  Zorzi  somehow  meets 
My  Zanze  !     If  the  ribbon's  black. 
The  Three  are  watching :  keep  away 


IN   A   GONDOLA  107 

Your  gondola — let  Zorzi  wreathe 

A  mesh  of  water-weeds  about 

Its  prow,  as  if  he  unaware 

Had  struck  some  quay  or  bridge-foot  stair  ! 

That  I  may  throw  a  paper  out 

As  you  and  he  go  underneath. 

There's  Zanze's  vigilant  taper ;  safe  are  we. 
Only  one  minute  more  to-night  with  me  } 
Resume  your  past  self  of  a  month  ago  ! 
Be  you  the  bashful  gallant,  I  will  be 
The  lady  with  the  colder  breast  than  snow. 
Xow  bow  you,  as  becomes,  nor  touch  my  hand 
More  than  I  touch  yours,  when  I  step  to  land, 
And  say,  '^  All  thanks,  Siora  !  " — 

Heart  to  heart 
And  lips  to  lips  !     Yet  once  more,  ere  we  part. 
Clasp  me  and  make  me  thine,  as  mine  thou  art  ! 

He  is  surpiisedj  and  stabbed 

It  was  ordained  to  be  so,  sweet ! — and  best 
Comes  now,  beneath  thine  eyes,  upon  thy  breast. 
Still  kiss  me  !     Care  not  for  the  cowards  !     Care 
Only  to  put  aside  thy  beauteous  hair 
My  blood  will  hurt  !     The  Three,  I  do  not  scorn 
To  death,  because  they  never  lived  :  but  I 
Have  lived  indeed,  and  so — (yet  one  more  kiss) — 
can  die  ! 


Robert  Bromnns 


I    t 


108 


SKIES   ITALIA X 


SAINT   CHRISTOPHER     109 


THE    REZZOXICO    PALACE 

C'A  Roberto  Browning,  morlo  in  questo  palazzo") 

LOW  stars  and  moonlight  beauty  disavow 
That  death  has  ever  known  her  ;  but  around 
Her  melancholy  portals  only  sound 
Of  waters  makes  her  music ;  and  the  brow 
Of  stately  wall  records  the  legend  how 

''Died   in    this    palace"    a    poet    Love    once 

crowned. 
Here  the  cold  Angel  that  strong  harp  unbound  ; 
How  chill  and  silent  seem  her  chambers  now  ! 
O  World,  if  ever  moon  should  wander  here 

Where    builds    my    heart   its   palace   for   your 
song. 

And  find  such  tablet  in  the  outer  wall, 
The  poet  dead,  the  chambers  still  and  drear, 
Let  not  its  liollow  beauty  win  the  throng 
To  reverence,  but  let  it  perish  all  I 

Arfhnr  Upson 


SAINT  CHRISTOPHER 

IN  the  narrow  Venetian  street. 
On  the  wall  above  the  garden  gate 
(Within  the  breath  of  the  rose  is  sweet. 

And  the  nightingale  sings  there,  soon  and  late). 

Stands  Saint  Christopher,  carven  in  stone, 
With  the  little  child  in  his  huge  caress. 

And  the  arms  of  the  baby  Jesus  thrown 
About  his  gigantic  tenderness. 


And  over  the  wall  a  wandering  growth 

Of  darkest  and  greenest  ivy  clings. 
And  climbs  around  them,  and  holds  them  both 

In  its  netted  clasp  of  knots  and  rings. 

Clothing  the  saint  from  foot  to  beard 

In  glittering  leaves  that  whisper  and  dance 

To  the  child,  on  his  mighty  arm  upreared, 
With  a  lusty  summer  exuberance. 

To  the  child  on  his  arm  the  faithful  saint 
Looks  up  with  a  broad  and  tranquil  joy  ; 

His  brows  and  his  heavy  beard  aslant 
Under  the  dimpled  chin  of  the  boy. 

Who  plays  with  the  world  upon  his  palm. 
And  bends  his  smiling  looks  divine 

On  the  face  of  the  giant  mild  and  calm. 
And  the  glittering  frolic  of  the  vine. 

He  smiles  on  either  with  equal  grace, — 
On  the  simple  ivy's  unconscious  life. 

And  the  soul  in  the  giant's  lifted  face. 
Strong  from  the  peril  of  the  strife  : 

For  both  are  his  own, — the  innocence 

That  climbs  from  the  heart  of  earth  to  heaven, 

And  the  virtue  that  greatly  rises  thence 
Through  trial  sent  and  victory  given. 

Grow,  ivy,  up  to  his  countenance. 

But  it  cannot  smile  on  my  life  as  on  thine ; 

Look,  Saint,  with  thy  trustful,  fearless  glance. 
Where  I  dare  not  lift  these  eyes  of  mine. 

William  Dean  Howells 


no  SKIES    ITALIAN 


RIVERS   OF   VENICE 


^ /^ENETIA  S  rivers,  summoned  all  around, 
V  Hear  the  loud  call,  and  answer  to  the  sound  • 

Her  dropp,ng  locks  the  silver  Tessin  rears. 
The  blue  transparent  Adda  next  appears. 
The  rapid  Adige  then  erects  her  head 
And  Mincio  rising  slowly  from  his  bed 
And  last  Timavus,  that,  with  eager  force 

( 'laudian, 
tr.  Joseph  Addison 

LIDO 

T  rY^^y  ^"^  ^'^^*  *^^  ^""  May-moon 
X  Un  that  long  narrow  shoal 

Which  lies  between  the  still  Lagoon 
And  the  open  ocean's  roll. 

How  pleasant  was  that  grassy  shore, 
VMien  one  for  months  had  been 
Shut  up  in  streets,-to  feel  once  more 
One  s  foot  fall  on  the  green  ! 

There  are  thick  trees  too  in  that  place; 
But  straight  from  sea  to  sea, 

Over  a  rough  uncultured  spice, 
1  he  path  goes  drearily. 

1  passed  along,  with  many  a  bound. 
To  hail  the  fresh  free  wave ; 
But,  pausing,  wonderingly  found 
i  was  treading  on  a  grave. 


LIDO  111 

Then,  at  one  careless  look,  I  saw 
That,  for  some  distance  round, 
Tombstones,  without  design  or  law, 
Were  scattered  on  the  ground. 

Of  pirates  or  of  mariners 
I  deemed  that  these  might  be 
The  fitly  chosen  sepulchres. 
Encircled  by  the  sea. 

But  there  were  words  inscribed  on  all, 
r  the  tongue  of  a  far  land. 
And  marks  of  things  symbolical, 
I  could  not  understand. 

They  are  the  graves  of  that  sad  race 
Who  from  their  Syrian  home, 
For  ages,  without  resting-place. 
Are  doomed  in  woe  to  roam  ; 


Who,  in  the  days  of  sternest  faith. 
Glutted  the  sword  and  flame. 
As  if  a  taint  of  moral  death 
Were  in  their  very  name : 

And  even  under  laws  most  mild. 
All  shame  was  deemed  their  due. 
And  the  nurse  told  the  Christian  child 
To  shun  the  cursed  Jew. 

Thus  all  their  gold's  insidious  grace 
Availed  not  here  to  gain 
For  their  last  sleep  a  seemlier  place 
Than  this  bleak-featured  plain. 


I 


112  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Apart,  severely  separate, 
On  the  verge  of  the  outer  sea, 
Their  home  of  death  is  desolate 
As  their  life's  home  could  be. 

The  common  sand-path  had  defaced 
And  pressed  down  many  a  stone ; 
Others  can  be  but  faintly  traced 
r  the  rank  grass  o'er  them  grown. 

I  thought  of  Shylock, — the  fierce  heart 
Whose  wrongs  and  injuries  old 
Temper,  in  Shakespeare's  world  of  art. 
His  lusts  of  blood  and  gold  ; 

Perchance  that  form  of  broken  pride 
Here  at  my  feet  once  lay, — 
But  lay  alone, — for  at  his  side 
There  was  no  Jessica  ! 

Fondly  I  love  each  island-shore. 
Embraced  by  Adrian's  waves  ; 
But  none  has  Memory  cherished  more 
Than  Lido  and  its  graves. 

•  Lord  Houghton 

THE  JEWS'    CEMETERY   ON   THE    LIDO 

A  TRACT  of  land  swept  by  the  salt  sea-foam. 
Fringed  with  acacia  flowers  and  billowy  deep, 
In  meadow-grasses,  where  tall  poppies  sleep. 
And  bees  athirst  for  wilding  honey  roam. 
How  many  a  bleeding  heart  hath  found  its  home. 
Under  these  hillocks  which  the  sea-mews  sweep! 
Here  knelt  an  outcast  race  to  curse  and  weep, 
Agc:  after  age,  'neath  heaven's  unanswering  dome. 


■fa?:" 

I 


TORCELLO 


113 


Sad  is  the  place  and  solemn.     Grave  by  grave. 
Lost  in  the  dunes,  with  rank  weeds  overgrown, 
Pines  in  abandonment ;  as  though  unknown, 

Uncared  for,  lay  the  dead,  whose  records  pave 
This  path  neglected  ;  each  forgotten  stone 

Wept  by  no  mourner  but  the  moaning  wave. 

John  Addington  Symonds 

THE    MADONNA   DELL'    ACQUA 

AROUND  her  shrine  no  earthly  blossoms  blow. 
No  footsteps  fret  the  pathway  to  and  fro. 
No  sign  nor  record  of  departed  prayer. 
Print  of  the  stone,  nor  echo  of  the  air, 
Worn  by  the  lip,  nor  wearied  by  the  knee — 
Only  a  deeper  silence  of  the  sea  : 
For  there,  in  passing,  pause  the  breezes  bleak. 
And  the  foam  fades  and  all  the  waves  are  weak ; 
The  pulse-like  oars  in  softer  fall  succeed. 
The  black  prow  falters  through  the  wild  sea-weed^ 
Where  twilight-borne  the  minute  thunders  reach 
Of  deep-mouthed  surf  that  bays  by  Lido's  beach. 

John  Raskin 

TORCELLO 

SHORT  sail  from  Venice  sad  Torcello  lies, 
Deserted  island,  low  and  still  and  green. 
Before  fair  Venice  was  a  bride  and  queen 
Torcello's  court  was  held  in  fairer  guise 
Than  Doges  knew.     To-day  death-vapours  rise 
From  fields  where  once  her  palaces  were  seen, 
And  in  her  silent  towers  that  crumbling  lean 
Unterrified  the  brooding  swallow  flies. 
H 


114 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


O  once-loved  friend,  who  dost  in  vain  implore 
My  presence,  thou  art  like  Torcello's  land. 
Thy  wasted  life  to  me  seems  life  no  more. 

With  all  its  beauty  death  goes  hand  in  hand, 
I  shrink  from  thee,  as  on  its  blighted  strand 
Torcello's  ghosts  might  turn  and  fly  the  shore. 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson 


THE  LAST  DOGE  TO  FETTERED  VENICE 

(1799) 

I   SAW  a  phantom  sitting  in  her  rags 
Upon  a  throne  that  sea-gods  wrought  of  old  ; 
Her  tatters,  stamped  with  blazonry  of  gold. 
Seemed  made  of  remnants  of  victorious  flags ; 

Her  face  was  fair,  though  wrinkled  like  a  hag's. 
And  in  the  sun  she  shivered  as  with  cold  ; 
While  round  her  breast  she  tightened  each  toni 
fold 

To  hide  her  chains,  more  thick  than  felon  drags. 


O  Venice,  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 

I  think  of  when  thy  vessels  used  to  bring 

The  gems  and  spices  of  the  plundered  East 

Up  to  thy  feet,  and  like  an  endless  flight 

Of  hurrying  sea-birds,  on  a  broad  white  wing. 

Heaped  up  the  gift  that  ever  still  increased. 

Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 


AT   VENICE 


115 


ON  THE  EXTINCTION  OF  THE  VENETIAN 

REPUBLIC 

ONCE  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee ; 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the   West ;   the 
worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
\  enice,  the  eldest  child  of  Liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  City,  bright  and  free ; 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate ; 
And,  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  Mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 
And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade. 

Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay  ; 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 

When  her  long  life  hath  reached  its  final  day : 
Men  are  we,    and  must   grieve  when  even   the 

Shade  ' 

Of  that  which  once  was  great,  is  passed  away. 

William  Wordsivorth 


AT   VENICE 

SO  now  she  stands  by  Glory's  great  sea-grave 
And  has  the  first  fair  vision  of  that  shrine 
Where  it  lies  sainted  with  its  smile  divine, 
Rubied  in  sunset,  em'ralded  in  wave ; 
Where  the  stones  whisper  of  the  masques  they 
gave. 
Of  argosy  and  pageant,  line  on  line. 
Till  we  are  drunk  with  splendour  as  with  wine 
In  that  broad  street  which  molten  beryls  pave. 


y 


116 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  me  at  whiles. 

Or  only  of  the  dim  Byzantine  gold 
And    time-stained   fronts,   and    seaweed-covered 
piles  ? 
And  if  a  corner  of  her  heart  doth  hold 
Something  besides  a  dream  of  the  crowned  isles 
That  ruled  the  sunrise  and  its  waves  of  old? 

Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 


VENICE 

VENICE,  thou  Siren  of  sea-cities,  wrought 
By  mirage,  built  on  water,  stair  o'er  stair. 
Of  sunbeams  and  cloud-shadows,  phantom-fair, 
With  naught  of  earth  to  mar  thy  sea-born  thought ! 
Thou  floating  film  upon  the  wonder-fraught 
Ocean  of  dreams  I     Thou  hast  no  dream  so  rare 
As  are  thy  sons  and  daughters,  they  who  wear 
Foam-flakes  of  charm   from    thine  enchantment 
caught ! 

O  dark  brown  eyes  !  O  tangles  of  dark  hair  ! 
O  heaven-blue  eyes,  blonde  tresses  where  the 

breeze 
Plays  over  sun-burned  cheeks  in  sea-blown  air  ! 
Firm  limbs  of  moulded  bronze  !   frank  debonair 
Smiles  of  deep-bosomed  women  !     Loves  that 

seize 
Man's  soul,  and  waft  her  on  storm-melodies ! 

John  Add  in  gt  on  Symonds 


EMILIA  AND  THE  MARCHES 


'V. 


1 


!• 


I 


M 


EMILIA    AND   THE   MARCHES 

IMPLORA    PACE 

I  STOOD  within  the  cypress  gloom 
Where  old  Ferrara's  dead  are  laid, 
And  mused  on  many  a  sculptured  tomb. 
Moss-grown  and  mouldering  in  the  shade. 

And  there  was  one  the  eye  might  pass, 
And  careless  foot  might  tread  upon, 

A  crumbling  tablet  in  the  grass, 
With  weeds  and  wild  vines  overrun. 

In  the  dim  light  I  stooped  to  trace 

The  lines  the  time-worn  marble  bore. 
Of  reverent  praise  or  prayer  for  grace — 
Implorn  Pace!'* — nothing  more. 


« 


Name,  fame,  and  rank,  if  any  were. 

Had  long  since  vanished  from  the  stone, 

Leaving  the  meek,  pathetic  prayer, 
"  Peace  I  implore  !  "  and  tl  Is  alone. 

Charles  Lotin  Hildreih 


I 


TO   THE    DUKE   ALFONSO,   ASKING   TO 

BE    LIBERATED 

ANEW  Ixion  upon  fortune's  wheel. 
Whether  I  sink  profound,  or  rise  sublime, 
One  never-ceasing  martyrdom  I  feel. 

The  same  in  woe,  though  changing  all  the  time. 

119 


i 


/  ^ 


120 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


I  wept  above,  where  sunbeams  sport  and  climb 
The    vines,   and  through    the    foHage    sighs    the 
breeze, 

I  burned  and  froze,  languished,  and  prayed  in 
rhyme. 
Nor  could  your  ire  nor  my  own  grief  appease. 
Now  in  my  prison,  deep  and  dim,  have  grown 

My  torments  greater  still  and  keener  far, 
As  if  all  sharpened  on  the  dungeon-stone  : 

Magnanimous  Alfonso !  burst  the  bar. 
Changing  my  fate,  and  not  my  cell  alone. 

And  let  my  fortune  wheel  me  where  you  are  ! 

Torquato  Tasso, 
tr.  Richard  Henry  Wilde 


PRISON   OF  TASSO 

FERRARA  !    in  thy  wide  and  grass -grown 
streets. 
Whose  symmetry  was  not  for  solitude, 
There  seems  as  'twere  a  curse  upon  the  seats 
Of  former  sovereigns,  and  the  antique  brood 
Of  Este,  which  for  many  an  age  made  good 
Its  strength  within  thy  walls,  and  was  of  yore 
Patron  or  tyrant,  as  the  changing  mood 
Of  petty  power  impelled,  of  those  who  wore 
The  wreath  which  Dante's  brow  alone  had  worn 
before. 

And  Tasso  is  their  glory  and  their  shame. 
Hark  to  his  strain  !  and  then  survey  his  cell  I 
And  see  how  dearly  earned  Torquato's  fame. 
And  where  Alfonso  bade  his  poet  dwell. 
The  miserable  despot  could  not  quell 


PRISON   OF   TASSO       121 

The  insulted  mind  he  sought  to  quench,  and 

blend 
With  the  surrounding  maniacs,  in  the  hell 
Where  he  had  plunged  it.     Glory  without  end 
Scattered    the    clouds  away,  and   on    that   name 

attend 


The  tears  and  praises  of  all  time,  while  thine 
Would  rot  in  its  oblivion,  in  the  sink 
Of  worthless  dust  which  from  thy  boasted  line 
Is  shaken  into  nothing ;  but  the  link 
Thou  formest  in  his  fortunes  bids  us  think 
Of  thy  poor  malice,  naming  thee  with  scorn  ; 
Alfonso,  how  they  ducal  pageants  shrink 
From  thee  !  if  in  another  station  bom. 
Scarce  fit  to  be  the  slave  of  him  thou  mad'st  to 
mourn  : 

Thou  !  formed  to  eat,  and  be  despised,  and  die. 
Even  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  save  that  thou 
Hadst  a  more  splendid  trough  and  wider  sty  ; 
He  !  with  a  glory  round  his  furrowed  brow. 
Which  emanated  then,  and  dazzles  now. 
In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire. 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy  could  allow 
No  strain  which  shamed  his  country's  creaking 
lyre. 
That  whetstone  of  the  teeth, — monotony  in  wire  ! 

Peace  to  Torquato's  injured  shade  !  'twas  his 
In  life  and  death  to  be  the  mark  where  Wrong 
Aimed  with  her  poisoned  arrows — but  to  miss. 
O  victor  unsurpassed  in  modern  song  ! 


/ 


Y 


122 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


Each   year  brings  forth  its  millions ;  but  how 

long 
The  tide  of  generations  shall  roll  on, 
And    not    the    whole  combined  and   countless 

throng 
Compose  a  mind  like   thine  ?     Though  all  in 

one 
Condensed  their  scattered  rays,  they  would  not 

form  a  sun. 

Lord  Bj/ron 

TO   SCI  PIG   GOXZAGA 


SURE  Pity,  Scipio,  on  earth  has  fled 
From  royal  breasts  to  seek  abode  in  heaven ; 
For  if  she  were  not  banished,  scorned,  or  dead. 
Would  not  some  ear  to  my  complaints  be  given  ? 
Is  noble  faith  at  pleasure  to  be  riven. 

Though   freely  pledged  that   I  had  naught  to 

dread. 
And  I  by  endless  outrage  to  be  driven 
To  worse  than   death, — the    deathlike    life    I've 

led? 
For  this  is  of  the  quick  a  grave  ;  and  here 

Am  I,  a  living,  breathing  corpse  interred. 
To  go  not  forth,  till  prisoned  in  my  bier ; 

O  earth  !    O   heaven  !    if  love  and    truth    are 
heard, 
Or  honour,  fame,  and  virtue  worth  a  tear. 
Let  not  my  prayers  be  fruitless  or  deferred ! 

Torquato  Tasso, 
tr.  Richard  Henry  Wilde 


THE   GUARDIAN   ANGEL    123 


i        ! 


THE   GUARDIAN    ANGEL 

DEAR  and  great  angel,   wouldst    thou    only 
leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him,  for 

me  ! 
Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 

Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry 
And  time  come  for  departure,  thou,  suspending 
Thy  flight,  mayst  see  another  child  for  tending. 

Another  still,  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 


II 


Then  shall  I  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more, 
From  where  thou  standest    now,  to   where    I 

gaze, 
And  suddenly  my  head  be  covered  o'er 

With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who 

prays 
Now    on    that    tomb,— and    I     shall    feel    thee 

guarding 
Me,  out  of  all  the  world  ;  for  me  discarding 

Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and  opes  its 
door ! 


I 


I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head 

Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  I  know. 

For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead. 
Thou  bird  of  God !  and  wilt  thou  bend  me  low 

Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 

And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether 
Me,   as   thy   lamb    there,  with    thy   garments 
spread  ? 


X 


124 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 

My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing  hands 

Close-covered  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast, 
Pressing    the    brain,  which  too  much  thought 
expands. 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 

Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy,  and  suppressed. 

How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repaired ! 

I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 
O  world,  as  God  has  made  it  !  all  is  beauty  : 
And  knowing  this,  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 

What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared  > 


Guercino  drew  this  angel  I  saw  teach 

(Alfred,  dear  friend) — that  little  child  to  pray, 
Holding  the  Uttle  hands  up,  each  to  each 

Pressed    gently, — with    his   own    head    turned 
away 
Over  the  earth  where  so  much  lay  before  him 
Of  work  to  do,  though  heaven  was  opening  o'er 
him. 
And  he  was  left  at  Fano  by  the  beach. 

We  were  at  Fano,  and  three  times  we  went 
To  sit  and  see  him  in  his  chapel  there, 

And  drink  his  beauty  to  our  soul's  content, 

My  angel  with  me  too ;  and  since  I  care 

For  dear  Guercino's  fame  (to  which  in  power 

And  glory  comes  this  picture  for  a  dower. 
Fraught  with  a  pathos  so  magnificent). 


AT   FANO 


125 


And  since  he  did  not  work  so  earnestly 

At  all  times,  and  has  else  endured  some  wrong, 

I  took  one  thought  his  picture  struck  from  me, 
And  spread  it  out,  translating  it  to  song. 

My  Love  is  here.     Where  -are  you,  dear  old  friend  } 

How  rolls  the  Wairoa  at  your  world's  far  end  ? 
This  is  Ancona,  yonder  is  the  sea. 

Robert  Browning 

AT    FANO 

(7o  Robert  Browning) 

DEARLY  honoured,  great  dead  poet,  still  as 
living  speak  to  me  ! 
This  is  Fano,  world-forgotten  little  Fano  by  the 

sea : 

I  have  come  to  see  that  angel  which   Guercino 

dreamed  and  drew. 
Since  whate'er  you  loved  and  honoured  I  would 

hold  in  honour  too. 

Like  some  sea-bird's  nest  the  township  clusters  in 

its  rampart  wall, — 
Such  a  twilight  in  the  byways,  such  an  autumn 

over  all : 

Gloomy  streets  with  silent  portals,  all  the  pulse 

of  life  they  hide, 
Throbbing  toward  that  one  piazza  where  it  centres 

into  pride  ; 

House   and    palace,    as    their   wont    is   in    these 

Adriatic  ports. 
Turn  their  backs  on  darkling  alleys  and  their  faces 

on  the  courts. 


^ 


V 


/ 


126 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


Courts    beyond    each   tunnelled   entrance,  where 

through  vaulted  arches  seen 
GHmpses    flash    of    dancing     sunlight,    jets    of 

fountain,  glints  of  green. — 

Here  I  found  him,  ever  watchful  for  the  work  of 

love  to  do, 
That   white-winged  one    whose   great  glory  you 

interpreted  so  true  ; 

Still  he  folds  the  little  fingers  of  that  kneeling 

child  to  prayer. 
On  the  grave  which  tells  the  story  why  it  needs 

the  angel's  care  ; 

Still  above  the    forehead's  glory  arch   the  great 

wings  wide  unfurled 
As  alert  to  shield  and  succour  all  the  orphans  of 

the  world. 


Yet   hath  he  but   little  honour  in  his  home   at 

Fano  there 
O'er   the    cold    neglected   altar   in    the    chapel 

blanched  and  bare ; 

Few  come  here  to  read  his  message  in  the  little 

nest  of  towers, — 
Few  that  worship  where  he  watches,  none  that 

deck  his  shrine  with  flowers. 


Thence  I  passed  out  on  the  ramparts,  high  above 

the  olive  trees, 
Skirting  roofs  and  shadowy  belfries,  overlooking 

evening  seas 


AT   FANO 


127 


Into  such  a  rose  of  sunset,  such  a  tender  twilight 

hue 
Where  the  orange  sails  came  homeward  on  the 

Adriatic  blue ; 

Oh,  my  poet,  had  you  seen  it,  you  had  found  the 

word  to  fit 
That  sweet  world  of  peace  at  even  with  God's 

love  enfolding  it ! 

There  across   the   rose   of    sunset,   through   the 

perfect  hush  of  things 
Stole  a  gentle  rhythmic  motion  that  might  be  the 

beat  of  wings. — 

Art  thou  free,  at  last,  dear  angel,  art  thou  free  to 

fly  above. 
Leave  that   little  one  to  slumber,  quit  the  duty 

which  is  love. 

Through  the  chiming  Ave  Mary  spread  those  bird 

wings  white  as  snow. 
Whether  starwards,   whether   sunwards,    be    the 

way  their  angels  go  } 

One  more  service  yet,  dear  angel,  find  him  there 

beyond  the  blue, 
Tell  him  how  I  loved  the  message  he  interpreted 

so  true ! 

Sir  UcnncU  Rodd 


■\\ 


vy 


\.-.  ^ 

\ 


!■    i 


f 


IN   TUSCANY 


li 


' 


"NOW  MARBLE   APENNINES   SHINING" 

NOW  marble  Apennines  shining 
Should  breathe  my  spirit  bare ; 
My  heart  should  cease  repining 
In  the  rainbow-haunted  air ; 
But  cureless  sorrow  carries 

My  heart  beyond  the  sea, 
Nor  comfort  in  it  tarries, 
Save  thoughts  of  thee. 

The  branch  of  olive  shaken 

Silvers  the  azure  sea  ; 
Winds  in  the  ilex  waken  ; 

O,  wert  thou  here  with  me. 
Gray  olive,  dark  ilex,  bright  ocean. 

The  radiant  mountains  round. 
Never  for  love's  devotion 

W^ere  sweeter  lodging  found  ! 

George  Edward  Woodberry 

[Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Messrs  Macmillan] 


|t 


BY   THE   ARNO 

THE  oleander  on  the  wall 
Grows  crimson  in  the  dawning  light, 
Though  the  grey  shadows  of  the  night 
Lie  yet  on  Florence  like  a  pall. 

131 


1* 


'I  III 


132  SKIES   ITALIAN 

The  dew  is  bright  upon  the  hill, 
And  bright  the  blossoms  overhead, 
But  ah  I  the  grasshoppers  have  fled, 
The  little  Attic  song  is  still. 

Only  the  leaves  are  gently  stirred 
By  the  soft  breathing  of  the  gale, 
And  in  the  almond-scented  vale 
The  lonely  nightingale  is  heard. 

The  day  will  make  thee  silent  soon, 
O  nightingale  sing  on  for  love  ! 
While  yet  upon  the  shadowy  grove 
Splinter  the  arrows  of  the  moon. 

Before  across  the  silent  lawn 
In  sea-green  mist  the  morning  steals, 
And  to  love's  frightened  eyes  reveals 
The  long  white  fingers  of  the  dawn 

Fast  climbing  up  the  eastern  sky 
To  grasp  and  slay  the  shuddering  night, 
All  careless  of  my  heart's  delight. 
Or  if  the  nightingale  should  die. 

Oscar  Wilde 


A   SONG   OF   ARNO 

IT  is  the  hour  when  Arno  turns 
Her  gold  to  chrysophrase  ; 
When  each  low-hanging  star  outburns 

Its  faint,  mysterious  rays, 
As  from  the  prison  of  faery  urns 
Which  faery  hands  upraise. 


FLORENTINE   MAY       133 

It  is  the  hour  when  life's  constraint 

A  moment's  ease  is  given ; 
When  earth  is  like  a  holy  saint, 

Stilled,  sanctified,  and  shriven, 
And  the  deep-breathing  heart  grows  faint. 

To  be  so  near  to  Heaven. 

Grace  Ellerij  Clumning-Stehon 


APPROACH   TO   FLORENCE 

BUT  Arno  wins  us  to  the  fair  white  walls. 
Where   the    Etrurian    Athens   claims    and 

keeps 
A  softer  feeling  for  her  fairy  halls. 
Girt  by  her  theatre  of  hills,  she  reaps 
Her  com  and  wine  and  oil,  and  Plenty  leaps 
To  laughing  life,  with  her  redundant  horn. 
Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Arno  sweeps 
Was  modern  luxury  of  commerce  born. 
And    buried  learning  rose,  redeemed  to  a  new 

morn. 

Lord  Byron 


FLORENTINE   MAY 

STILL,  still  is  the  night;    still   as  the  pause 
after  pain  ; 

Still  and  as  dear  ; 
Deep,  solemn,  immense ;  veiling  the  stars  in  the 

clear 
Thrilling   and   luminous   blue   of  the   moon-shot 
atmosphere  ; 

Ah,  could  the  night  remain  ! 


134 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


Who,  truly,  shall  say  thou  art  sullen  or  dark  or 
unseen, 

Thou,  O  heavenly  night, 
Clear   o'er   the    valley    of   olives    asleep    in    the 

quivering  light, 
Clear  o'er  the  pale-red  hedge  of  the  rose,  and  the 
lilies  all  white 

Down  at  my  feet  in  the  green  ? 

Nay,  not  as   the   day,  thou   art   light,  O   Night, 
with  a  beam 

Far  more  dear  and  divine ; 
Never   the    noon   was    blue    as    these    tremulous 

heavens  of  thine. 
Pulsing    with    stars    half   seen,    and    vague    in   a 
pallid  shine. 

Vague  as  a  dream. 

Night,   clear    with    the    moon,    Hlled    with    the 
dreamy  fire 

Shining  in  thicket  and  close, 
Fire    from     the     lamp    in     his    breast    that    the 

luminous  fire-fly  throws ; 
Night,  full  of  wandering  light  and  of  song,  and 
the  blossoming  rose. 

Night,  be  thou  my  desire  ! 

Night,  Angel  of  Night,  hold  me  and  cover  me  so  — 

Open  thy  wings  I 
Ah,  bend  above  and  embrace ! — till  I  hear  in  the 

one  bird  that  sings 
The  throb  of  thy  musical  heart  in  the  dusk,  and 
the  magical  things 

Only  the  night  can  know. 

A.  Mary  f.  Robinson 


FLORENCE 


135 


t 

I 

i 


TO   L.   T.    IN    FLORENCE 

YOU  by  the  Arno  shape  your  marble  dream, 
Under  the  cypress  and  the  olive  trees. 
While  I,  this  side  the  wild,  wind-beaten  seas, 
Unrestful  by  the  Charles's  placid  stream, 
Long  once  again  to  catch  the  golden  gleam 
Of  Brunelleschi's  dome,  and  lounge  at  ease 
In  those  pleached  gardens  and  fair  galleries. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  you  envy  me,  and  deem 
My  star  the  happier,  since  it  holds  me  here. 
Even  so,  one  time,  beneath  the  cypresses 
My  heart  turned  longingly  across  the  sea. 
Aching  with  love  for  thee.  New  England  dear ! 
And  I'd  have  given  all  Titian's  goddesses 
For  one  poor  cowslip  or  anemone. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

FLORENCE 

DERIVED  from  thee,  O  Florence,  and  thy  son. 
Be  touched,  dear  land,  a  little  for  thy  child ! 
Seem  to  his  woes  compassionate  and  mild. 
Since  in  thy  arms  his  life  was  first  begun 
And  cherished.     From  our  birth  our  fate  must  run 
Assigned  ;  as  to  the  bird  his  wood-notes  wild. 
And  flight !— but  of  whatever  hopes  beguiled. 
In  this  one  instance  my  request  be  done : 
That  not  in  death,  as  in  my  griefs,  alone. 

However  long  estranged  from  thee  I  rove, 
Thee  in  my  ashes  I  may  call  my  own, 

Reposing  by  that  father  whom  I  love. 
By  whom  so  high  thy  fame  and  worth  have  flown. 
Grant  this  sole  boon,  whatever  thou  remove. 

Piero  de  Medici, 

tr,  Capel  Lofft 


136 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


AT   FLORENCE 

UNDER  the  shadow  of  a  stately  Pile, 
The  dome  of  Florence,  pensive  and  alone, 
Nor    giving    heed    to   aught    that    jwissed   the 
while, 
I  stood,  and  gazed  upon  a  marble  stone, 
The  laurelled  Dante's  favourite  seat.     A  throne, 
In  just  esteem,  it  rivals  ;  though  no  style 
Be  there  of  decoration  to  beguile 
The    mind,  depressed    by   thought   of  greatness 

flown. 
As  a  true  man,  who  long  had  served  the  lyre, 
I  gazed  with  earnestness,  and  dared  no  more. 
But  in  his  breast  the  mighty  Poet  bore 
A  patriot's  heart,  warm  with  undying  fire. 
Bold    with    the    thought,    in    reverence    I    sate 

down. 
And,  for  a  moment,  filled  that  vacant  Throne. 

fiil/iam  IVordstvorth 


THE   OLD    BRIDGE    AT    FLORENCE 

TADDEO  Gaddi  built  me.     I  am  old, 
Five  centuries  old.     I  plant  my  foot  of  stone 
Upon  the  Arno,  as  St  Michael's  own 
Was  planted  on  the  dragon.     Fold  by  fold 
Beneath  me  as  it  struggles,  I  behold 

Its   glistening    scales.      Twice    hath    it   over- 
thrown 
My  kindred  and  companions.      Me  alone 
It  moveth  not,  but  is  by  me  controlled. 


137 


GIOTTO'S   TOWEJl 

I  can  remember  when  the  Medici 

Were  driven  from  Florence  ;  longer  still  ago 
The  final  wars  of  Ghibelline  and  Guelf. 

Florence  adorns  me  with  her  jewelry  ; 
And  when  I  think  that  Michel  Angelo 
Hath  leaned  on  me,  I  glory  in  myself. 

Henry  Wadsivorth  Longfello7v 


GIOTTO'S   CAMPANILE 

ENCHASED  with  precious  marbles,  pure  and 
rare, 
How  graciously  it  soars,  and  seems  the  while 
From  every  polished  stage  to  laugh  and  smile. 
Playing  with  sportive  gleams  of  lucid  air ! 
Fit  resting-place  methinks  its  summit  were 
For  a  descended  angel  !  happy  isle. 
Mid  life's  rough  sea  of  sorrow,  force,  and  guile. 
For  saint  of  royal  race,  or  vestal  fair. 
In  this  seclusion, — call  it  not  a  prison, — 
Cloistering  a  bosom  innocent  and  lonely. 
O  Tuscan  Priestess !  gladly  would  I  watch 
All  night  one  note  of  thy  loud  hymn  to  catch 
Sent  forth  to  greet  the  sun,  when  first,  new-risen. 
He  shines  on  that  aerial  station  only  ! 

Aubrey  de  fere 


I 


GIOTTO'S   TOWER 

HOW  many  lives,  made  beautiful  and  sweet 
By  self-devotion  and  by  self-restraint. 
Whose  pleasure  is  to  run  without  complaint 
On  unknown  errands  of  the  Paraclete, 
Wanting  the  reverence  of  unshodden  feet, 


I 


138         ^KTES   ITALIAN 

Fail  of  the  nimbus  which  the  artists  paint 
Around  the  shining  forehead  of  the  saint. 
And  are  in  their  completeness  incomplete ! 
In  the  old  Tuscan  town  stands  Giotto's  tower, 
The  lily  of  Florence  blossoming  in  stone, — 
A  vision,  a  delight,  and  a  desire, — 
The  builder's  jierfect  and  centennial  flower, 
That  in  the  night  of  ages  bloomed  alone. 
But  wanting  still  the  glory  of  the  spire. 

Henrif  Wadsivorlh  I Mtig  fellow 

SANTA   CROCE 

IN  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie 
Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 
Even  in  itself  an  immortality, 
Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and 

this 
The  particle  of  those  subHmities 
Which  have  relapsed  to  chaos  ; — here  repose 
Angelo's,  Alfieri's  bones,  and  his. 
The  starry  Galileo's,  with  his  woes  ; 
Here  Machiavelli's  earth  returned  to  whence  it 
rose. 

These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 

Might  furnish  forth  creation  ; — Italy  ! 

Time,  which  hath  wronged  thee  with  a  thousand 

rents 
Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny 
And  hath  denied,  to  every  other  sky. 
Spirits  which  soar  from  ruin  :  thy  decay 
Is  still  impregnate  with  divinity. 
Which  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray ; 
Such  as  the  great  of  yore,  Canova  is  to-day. 


SANTA   CROCE 


139 


i 


But  where  repose  the  all-Etruscan  three,— 
Dante,  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 
The  Bard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit  I  he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love,— where  did  they 

lay 
Their  bones,  distinguished  from   our  common 

clay 
In  death  as  life  ?     Are  they  resolved  to  dust, 
And  have  their  country's  marbles  naught  to  say  ? 
Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  forth  one  bust  ? 
Did  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  intrust  ? 

Ungrateful  Florence  !     Dante  sleeps  afar. 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore ; 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war, 
Proscribed  the  bard  whose  name  forevermore 
Their  children's  children  would  in  vain  adore 
With  the  remorse  of  ages ;  and  the  crown 
Which  Petrarch's  laureate  brow  supremely  wore. 
Upon  a  far  and  foreign  soil  had  grown, 
His  life,  his  fame,  his  grave,  though  rifled,— not 
thine  own. 

Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeathed 
His  dust,— and  lies  it  not  her  Great  among. 
With  many  a  sweet  and  solemn  requiem  breathed 
O'er    him    who    formed    the    Tuscan's    siren 

tongue, — 
That  music  in  itself,  whose  sounds  are  song. 
The  poetry  of  speech  ?     No  ;  even  his  tomb 
Uptorn,  must  bear  the  hyena  bigots  wrong. 
No  more  amongst  the  meaner  dead  find  room. 
Nor  claim  a  passing  sigh,  because  it  told  for  whom. 


I 


140 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust ; 
Yet  for  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
The  Ciesar's  pageant,  shorn  of  Brutus'  bust, 
Did  but  of  Rome's  best  son  remind  her  more. 
Happier  Ravenna  I  on  thy  holy  sliore, 
Fortress  of  falling  empire,  honoured  sleeps 
The  immortal  exile  ; — Arqua,  too,  her  store 
Of  tuneful  relics  proudly  keeps, 
While  Florence  vainly  begs  her  banished  dead, 
and  weeps. 

Lord  Byron 


FROM    "CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS" 

I  HEARD  last  night  a  little  child  go  singing 
'Neath  Casa  Guidi  windows,  by  the  church, 
O  hella  /iberto,  O  bella  ! — stringing 

The  same  words  still  on  notes  he  went  in  search 
So  high  for,  you  concluded  the  upspringing 

Of  such  a  nimble  bird  to  sky  from  perch 
Must  leave  the  whole  bush  in  a  tremble  green. 

And  that  the  heart  of  Italy  must  beat. 
While  such  a  voice  had  leave  to  rise  serene 

'Twixt  church  and  palace  of  a  Florence  street  : 
A  little  child,  too,  who  not  long  had  been 

By  mother's  finger  steadied  on  his  feet, 
And  still  O  hella  I'lberta  he  sanir. 


Then  I  thought,  musing,  of  the  innumerous 
Sweet  songs  which  still  for  Italy  outrang 

From  older  singers'  lips  who  sang  not  thus 
Exultingly  and  purely,  yet,  with  pang 


-CASA   GUIDI  WINDOWS  '  141 

Fast  sheathed  in  music,  touched  the  heart  of  us 

So  finely  that  the  pity  scarcely  pained. 
I  thought  how  Filicaja  led  on  others, 

Bewailers  for  their  Italy  enchained, 
And  how  they  called  her  childless  among  mothers, 

Widow  of  empires,  ay,  and  scarce  refrained 
Cursing  her  beauty  to  her  face,  as  brothers 

Might  a  shamed  sister's—"  Had  she  been  less 

fair 
She  were  less  wretched  "  ;— how,  evoking  so 

From  congregated  wrong  and  heaped  despair 
Of  men  and  women  writhing  under  blow, 

Harrowed  and  hideous  in  a  filthy  lair. 
Some  personating  Image  wherein  woe 

Was  wrapt  in  beauty  from  offending  much, 
They  called  it  Cybele,  or  Niobe, 

Or  laid  it  corpse-like  on  a  bier  for  such. 
Where  all  the  world  might  drop  for  Italy 

Those  cadenced  tears  which   burn   not   where 
they  touch, — 
"  Juliet  of  nations,  canst  thou  die  as  we  ? 

And  was  the  violet  crown  that  crowned  thy  head 
So  over-large,  though  new  buds  made  it  rough. 

It  slipped  down  and  across  thine  eyelids  dead, 
O  sweet,  fair  Juliet?"     Of  such  songs  enough, 
Too  many  of  such  complaints  !  behold,  instead, 
Void  at  Verona,  Juliet's  marble  trough  : 

As  void  as  that  is.  are  all  images 
Men  set  between  themselves  and  actual  wrong, 
To  catch  the  weight  of  pity,  meet  the  stress 
Of  conscience,— since  'tis  easier  to  gaze  long 

On  mournful  masks  and  sad  effigies 
Than    on   real,  live,   weak   creatures   crushed  by 
strong. 


^C 


li 


t 


142 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


For  me  who  stand  in  Italy  to-day 
Where  worthier  poets  stood  and  sang  before, 

I  kiss  their  footsteps  yet  their  words  gainsay. 
I  can  but  muse  in  hope  upon  this  shore 

Of  golden  Arno  as  it  shoots  away 
Through  Florence'  heart  beneath  her  bridges  four, 

Bent  bridges,  seeming  to  strain  off  like  bows 
And  tremble  while  the  arrowy  undertide 

Shoots  on  and  cleaves  the  marble  as  it  goes. 
And  strikes  up  palace-walls  on  either  side. 

And  froths  the  cornice  out  in  glittering  rows, 
With  doors  and  windows  quaintly  multiplied. 

And  terrace-sweeps,  and  gazers  upon  all. 
By    whom    if    flower   or   kerchief    were    thrown 
out 

From  any  lattice  there,  the  same  would  fall 
Into  the  river  underneath,  no  doubt, 

It  runs  so  close  and  fast  'twixt  wall  and  wall. 
How  beautiful  !  the  mountains  from  without 

In  silence  listen  for  the  word  said  next. 
What  word   will    men    say,— here   where   Giotto 
planted 
His  campanile  like  an  unperplexed 
Fine    question  Heavenward,  touching  the  things 
granted 
A  noble  people  who,  being  greatly  vexed 
In  act,  in  aspiration  keep  undaunted  ? 

What    word   will   God    say?     Michael's   Night 
and  Day 

And  Dawn  and  Twilight  wait  in  marble  scorn 
Like  dogs  upon  a  dunghill,  couched  on  clay. 

From  whence  the  Medicean  stamp's  outwoni, 
The  final  putting  off  of  all  such  sway 

By  all  such  hands,  and  freeing  of  the  unborn 


CASA   GUIDl    WINDOWS    143 

In  Florence  and  the  great  world  outside  Flor- 
ence. 
Three  hundred  years  his  patient  statues  wait 
In  that  small  chapel  of  the  dim  Saint  Lawrence  ! 

,       '       .  •  •  •  •  • 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS 

SHE  came,  whom  Casa  Guidi's  chambers  knew. 
And  know  more  proudly,  an  immortal,  now  ; 
The  air  without  a  star  was  shivered  through 
With  the  resistless  radiance  of  her  brow, 
And   glimmering    landscapes   from   the   darkness 
grew. 

Thin,   phantom-like ;    and  yet   she   brought   me 

rest. 
Unspoken  words,  an  understood  command. 
Sealed  weary  lids  with  sleep,  together  pressed 
In  clasping  quiet  wandering  hand  to  hand. 
And  smoothed  the  folded  cloth  above  the  breast. 

Now,  looking  through  these  windows,  where  the 

day 
Shines  on  a  terrace  splendid  with  the  gold 
Of  autumn  shrubs,  and  green  with  glossy  bay, 
Once  more  her  face,  re-made  from  dust,  I  hold 
In  light  so  clear  it  cannot  pass  away  : — 

The  quiet  brow  ;  the  face  so  frail  and  fair 
For  such  a  voice  of  song  ;  the  steady  eye, 
Where  shone  the  spirit  fated  to  outwear 
Its  fragile  house  ; — and  on  her  features  lie 
The  soft  half-shadows  of  her  drooping  hair. 


H  !• 


144 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


Who  could  forget  those  features,  having  known  ? 
Whose  memory  do  his  kindling  reverence  wrong 
That  heard  the  soft  Ionian  flute,  whose  tone 
Changed  with  the  silver  trumpet  of  her  song  ? 
No  sweeter  airs  from  woman's  lips  were  blown. 

Ah,  in  the  silence  she  has  left  behind, 
How  many  a  sorrowing  voice  of  life  is  still  I 
Songless  she  left  the  land  that  cannot  find 
Song  for  its  heroes  ;  and  the  Roman  hill. 
Once  free,  shall  for  her  ghost  the  laurel  wind. 

The  tablet  tells  you,  '*  Here  she  wrote  and  died," 
And  grateful  Florence  bids  the  record  stand  : 
Here  bend  Italian  love  and  English  pride 
Above  her  grave, — and  one  remoter  land, 
Free  as  her  prayers  could  make  it,  at  their  side 

I  will  not  doubt  the  vision :  yonder  see 
The  moving  clouds  that  speak  of  freedom  won  I 
And  life,  new-lighted,  with  a  lark-like  glee 
Through  Casa  Guidi  windows  hails  the  sun, 
Grown  from  the  rest  her  spirit  gave  to  me. 

Bayard  Taylor 


£.    B.    B. 


THE  white-rose  garland  at  her  feet. 
The  crown  of  laurel  at  her  head, 
Her  noble  life  on  earth  complete. 

Lay  her  in  the  last  low  bed 
For  the  slumber  calm  and  deep  : 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 


OLD   PICTURES 


145 


II 

Soldiers  find  their  fittest  grave 
In  the  field  whereon  they  died  ; 

So  her  spirit  pure  and  brave 
Leaves  the  clay  it  glorified 

To  the  land  for  which  she  fought 

With  such  grand  impassioned  thought. 

Ill 

Keats  and  Shelley  sleep  at  Rome, 
She  in  well-loved  Tuscan  earth  ; 

Finding  all  their  death's  long  home 
Far  from  their  old  home  of  birth. 

Italy,  you  hold  in  trust 

Very  sacred  English  dust. 

James  Thomson 


OLD    PICTURES   IN   FLORENCE 

THE  morn  when  first  it  thunders  in  March, 
The  eel  in  the  pond  gives  a  leap,  they  say  : 
As  I  leaned  and  looked  over  the  aloed  arch 

Of  the  villa-gate  this  warm  March  day. 
No  flash  snapped,  no  dumb  thunder  rolled 

In  the  valley  beneath  where,  white  and  wide 
And  washed  by  the  morning  water-gold, 
Florence  lay  out  on  the  mountain-side. 

River  and  bridge  and  street  and  square 
Lay  mine,  as  much  at  my  beck  and  call. 

Through  the  live  translucent  bath  of  air. 
As  the  sights  in  a  magic  crystal  ball. 


146  SKIES    ITALIA^^ 

And  of  all  I  saw  and  of  all  I  praised, 
The  most  to  praise  and  the  best  to  see, 

Was  the  startling  bell-tower  Giotto  raised  : 
But  why  did  it  more  than  startle  me  ? 



On  the  arch  where  olives  overhead 

Print  the  blue  sky  with  twig  and  leaf, 
(That  sharp-curled  leaf  which  they  never  shed) 

'Twixt  the  aloes,  I  used  to  lean  in  chief. 
And  mark  through  the  winter  afternoons. 

By  a  gift  God  grants  me  now  and  then. 
In  the  mild  decline  of  those  suns  like  moons. 

Who  walked  in  Florence,  beside  her  men. 


i 


They  might  chirp  and  chatter,  come  and  go, 

For  pleasure  or  profit,  her  men  alive— 
My  business  was  hardly  with  them,  I  trow. 

But  with  empty  cells  of  the  human  hive  ; 
—With  the  chapter-room,  the  cloister-porch. 

The  church's  apsis,  aisle  or  nave, 
Its  crypt,  one  fingers  along  with  a  torch. 

Its  face  set  full  for  the  sun  to  shave. 


Wherever  a  fresco  peels  and  drops. 

Wherever  an  outline  weakens  and  wanes 
Till  the  latest  life  in  the  painting  stops. 

Stands  One  whom  each  fainter  pulse-tick  pains 
One,  wishful  each  scrap  should  clutch  the  brick, 

Each  tinge  not  wholly  escape  the  plaster, 
A  lion  who  dies  of  an  ass's  kick. 

The  wronged  soul  of  an  ancient  Master. 


ON  PORTRAIT  OF  DANTE   147 

For  oh,  this  world  and  the  wrong  it  does ! 

They  are  safe  in  heaven  with  their  backs  to  it. 
The  Michaels  and  Raphaels,  you  hum  and  buzz 

Round  the  works  of,  you  of  the  little  wit ! 
Do  their  eyes  contract  to  the  earth's  old  scope. 

Now  that  they  see  God  face  to  face. 
And  have  all  attained  to  be  poets,  I  hope  ? 

'Tis  their  holiday  now,  in  any  case. 


w 


Robert  Browning 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  DANTE  BY  GIOTTO 

CAN  this  be  thou,  who,  lean  and  pale, 
With  such  immitigable  eye 
Didst  look  upon  those  writhing  souls  in  bale, 

And  note  eacli  vengeance,  and  pass  by 
Unmoved,  save  when  thy  heart  by  chance 
Cast  backward  one  forbidden  glance. 
And  saw  Francesca,  with  child's  glee. 
Subdue  and  mount  thy  wild-horse  knee 
And  with  proud  hands  control  its  fiery  prance  } 


With  half-drooped  lids,  and  smooth,  round  brow. 

And  eye  remote,  that  inly  sees 
Fair  Beatrice's  spirit  wandering  now 

In  some  sea-lulled  Hesperides, 
Thou  movest  through  the  jarring  street. 
Secluded  from  the  noise  of  feet 

By  her  gift-blossom  in  thy  hand, 

Thy  branch  of  palm  from  Holy  Land  ; — 
No  trace  is  here  of  ruin's  fiery  sleet. 


I 


I 


148  SKIES   ITALIAN 

Yet  there  is  something  round  thy  lips 

That  prophesies  the  coming  doom, 
The  soft,  gray  herald-shadow  ere  the  eclipse 

Notches  the  perfect  disk  with  gloom  ; 
A  something  that  would  banish  thee, 
And  thine  untamed  pursuer  be, 

From  men  and  their  unworthy  fates, 

Though  Florence  had  not  shut  her  gates, 
And  Grief  had  loosed  her  clutch  and  let  thee  free. 


pH 


Ah  !  he  who  follows  fearlessly 

The  beckonings  of  a  poet-heart 
Shall  wander,  and  without  the  world's  decree, 

A  banished  man  in  field  and  mart; 
Harder  than  Florence'  walls  the  bar 
Which  with  deaf  sternness  holds  him  far 

From  home  and  friends,  till  death's  release. 

And  makes  his  only  prayer  for  peace, 
Like  thine,  scarred  veteran  of  a  lifelong  war  . 

James  Russell  LotveU 


lit 


ON   A    BUST   OF   DANTE 

SEE,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 
Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim. 
The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song  : 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong. 

Perpetual  care  and  scorn,  abide  ; 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng  ; 
Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 


V 


ON    A    BUST    OF   DANTE     149 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be. 
No  dream  his  life  was, — but  a  fight ! 

Could  any  Beatrice  see 
A  lover  in  that  anchorite  ? 
To  that  cold  Ghibelline's  gloomy  sight 

VVlio  would  have  guessed  the  visions  came 
Of  Beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

The  lips  as  Cumae's  cavern  close. 
The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 

The  rigid  front,  almost  morose. 
But  for  the  patient  hope  within. 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 

Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe. 
Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin. 

Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look 
When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed, 

With  no  companion  save  his  book. 
To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade  ; 
Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 

His  palm  upon  the  convent's  guest. 
The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 

Was  peace,  that  pilgrim's  one  request. 

Peace  dwells  not  here, — this  rugged  face 
Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose  ; 

The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace. 
The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine. 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes. 

Dread  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 


I 


150 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


i 


i 


War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 
The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth  ; 

Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 
Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth , 
He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth  ; 

Plucked  Imre  hypocrisy  and  crime  ; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 

Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  1  ime. 

O  Time  !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own. 
The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou  ; 

That  poor  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 
Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now  : 
Before  his  name  the  nations  bow  ; 

His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow. 

The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante  s  mind. 

^  Thomas  nWiam  Parsons 

THE   PATH  MASTER 

(1301-1901) 

ERE  Florence  sowed  that  seed  of  woe 
Which  yet  her  vain  remorse  doth  reap 
The  harvest  of,  and  scorned  to  keep 
Her  Dante  in  her  halls,  (for  so 
It  is  beyond  the  Apennines 
He  sleeps  where  foreign  Summer  shines ,) 

'Tis  said,  before  the  factious  Guelf 
Grew  such  a  prodigal  of  spleen 
His  quarrel  with  the  Ghibelline 

Had  bred  black  schism  in  himself,— 
That  Alighieri,  wise  and  good. 
Among  the  priors  of  Florence  stood. 


THE   PATHMASTER      151 

And  him  a  chief  the  city  made 
Of  those  whose  strict  official  cares 
Should  be  in  lanes  and  thoroughfares 

To  see  the  skilless  builder  stayed, 
To  beautify  the  paths  unclean. 
And  render  broad  the  strait  and  mean. 

And  further  we  this  word  do  hold 
From  such  scant  fact  as  faintly  stirs 
From  quills  of  chary  chroniclers, 

Those  self-unconscious  scribes  of  old, — 
Unto  that  end  his  earnest  prime 
Bent  Dante  through  the  lotted  time. 

From  this  and  like  old  writ  we  deem 
That  somewhere  under  palace  eaves 
The  bard  divine  some  relic  leaves 

Of  widened  ways  :  scarce  more  than  dream.— 
Had  Florence  not  more  weighty  heeds 
Than  setting  down  a  Dante's  deeds  } 

What  street  of  all  thine  ancient  streets, 
Thou  Lily  of  the  Arno,  say. 
Dost  thou  allure  men  down  to-day 

What  legend  not  that  name  repeats  } 
What  road  but  some  old  memories  tell 
Of  walls  that  serve  it  sentinel  } 

One  road  he  paved  (the  records  show) 
"  So  that  unlet  at  their  desires 
The  commons  may  approach  the  priors  "  ; 

Which  was,  men  said,  San  Procolo. 
But  what  saith  one  of  subtler  wit  ? 
Far  other  Road  than  this  was  it ! 


V 


n 


w 


152  SKIES    ITALIAN 

O  thou  fair  Dreamer  of  the  Dead, 

When  Night  with  swift-remembering  pan^fs 
Her  pale  gold  lamp  above  thee  hangs, 

And  round  thy  windless  squares  is  tread 
Of  phantom  feet— oh,  whisper  low 
Which  way  his  measured  footsteps  go. 

For,  maybe,  at  such  magic  hour 

One  might  slip  forth  some  quiet  way 
While  sleeps  the  body,  to  the  gray. 

Cold  flagstone,  thence  by  font  and  tower. 
Till  whisper  saith  :  The  Road  was  this 
And  passed  the  house  of  Beatrice. 

Pale  Singer  of  the  Song  Divine 

Who  toiled  and  dreamt  and  sang  apart. 
Unto  these  latter  days  thy  heart 

Is  better  known  ;  such  song  as  thine 
And  the  stern  mark  upon  thy  brow. 
Then  dark,  are  not  all  riddle  now. 

Six  centuries,  a  hard,  steep  maze. 

The  world  hath  climbed  since  thou  in  shade 
To  Paradise  thy  path  hast  laid 

Through  heart-ache  and  long,  bitter  days  ; 
Till  now,  from  loftier  plane,  it  turns 
Unto  thy  lore  and,  wondering,  learns 

Thy  Road  was  that  severer  Love 
Outwidening  to  the  place  of  Law 
Whereto  we  commons  may  withdraw 

And  prove  our  right  to  things  above,— 
And  over  which,  as  to  thy  friends. 
Calm  Beatrice  her  hand  extends. 

Arthur  Upson 


TO  GUIDO  CAVALCANTI    158 


ON  THE  FLY-LEAF  OF  DANTE'S 
''VITA  NUOVA" 

THERE  was  a  tall  stern  Exile  once  of  old, 
Who  paced  Verona's  streets  as  dusk  shades 

fell. 

With  step  as  measured  as  the  vesper  bell. 
And  face  half-hidden  by  his  hood's  dark  fold ; 
One  whom  the  children,  as  he  grimly  strolled, 

Would    shrink   from    in    the    fear   of  a    vague 

spell. 
Crying,   "The    man    who   has   been    down 

Hell," 
Or  hanging  in  his  footsteps,  if  more  bold. 
This  little  book  is  not  by  that  stern  man. 
But  by  his  younger  self,  such  as  he  seems 
In  Giotto's  fresco,  holding  up  the  flower, 
Thinking  of  her  whose  hand,  by  Fate's  strange 
plan. 
He  never  touched  on  earth,  but  who,  in  dreams. 
Oft  led  him  into  Heaven  for  an  hour. 


to 


Eusene  Lee- Hamilton 


TO  GUIDO   CAVALCANTI 

GUIDO,  I  would  that  Lapo,  thou,  and  I, 
Led    by   some    strong    enchantment,    might 
ascend 
A  magic  ship,  whose  charmed  sails  should  fly 
With  winds  at  will,  where'er  our  thoughts  might 
wend. 


V 


I 


154  SKIES    ITALIAN 

And  that  no  change,  nor  any  evil  chance, 

Should  mar  our  joyous  voyage ;  but  it   might 

be 
That  even  satiety  should  still  enhance 

Between  our  hearts  their  strict  community, 
And  that  the  bounteous  wizard  then  would  place 

Vanna  and  Bice  and  my  gentle  love, 
Companions  of  our  wandering,  and  would  grace 
With  passionate  talk,  wherever  we  might  rove, 
Our  time,  and  each  were  as  content  and  free 
As  I  believe  that  thou  and  I  should  be. 

Dante  Alighieri, 
tr.  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

BE AT A    BEATRIX 

AND  was  it  thine,  the  light  whose  radiance 
shed 
Love's  halo  round  the  gloom  of  Dante's  brow  ? 
Was  thine  the  hand  that  touched  his  hand,  and 
thou 
The  spirit  to  his  inmost  spirit  wed  ? 
O  gentle,  O  most  pure,  what  shall  be  said 

In   praise   of  thee   to   whom   Love's  minstrels 

bow  ? 
O  heart  that  held  his  heart,  for  ever  now 
Thou  with  his  glory  shalt  be  garlanded. 
Lo  I  'mid  the  twilight  of  the  waning  years, 
Firenze  claims  once  more  our  love,  our  tears : 
But  thou,  triumphant  on  the  throne  of  song— 

By  Mar>'  seated  in  the  realm  above— 
O,  give  us  of  that  gift  than  death  more  strong, 
The  loving  spirit  that  won  Dante's  love. 

Samuel  Waddington 


ANDREA   DEL   SARTO    155 


ANDREA   DEL  SARTO 

{Called  ''  The  Faultless  Painter  ") 

BUT  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more. 
No,  my  Lucrezia  ;  bear  with  me  for  once : 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
Y'ou  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart  ? 
I'll  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear. 
Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way. 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price. 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it  ?  tenderly  ? 
Oh,  I'll  content  him,— but  to-morrow.  Love? 
I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think. 
This  evening  more  than  usual,  and  it  seems 

As  if forgive  now — should  you  let  me  sit 

Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in  mine 
And  look  a  half-hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use. 
Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 
To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this ! 
Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself. 
And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 
Don't  count   the   time   lost,   neither;  you   must 

serve 
For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require  : 
It  saves  a  model.     So  !  keep  looking  so— 
My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds  ! 

How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears. 

Even  to  put  the  pearl  there  !  oh,  so  sweet— 


ft 


ii 


156  SKIES   ITALIAN 

My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 
Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his. 
And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn. 
While  she  looks-no  one's  :  very  dear,  no  less^ 
You  smile  ?  why,  there's  my  picture  ready  made. 
There's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony . 
A  common  grayness  silvers  everything,- 
All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 
—You  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 
(That's  gone,  you  know),-but  I,  at  every  point ; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 
To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 
There's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top  ; 
That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 
Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside  ; 
The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden ;  days  decrease. 
And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything. 
Eh  ?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 
As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 
And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 
A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God  s  hand. 
How  strange  now  looks  the  life  he  makes  us  lead ; 
So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are  ! 
I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter :  let  it  lie  ! 
This  chamber  for  example— turn  your  head- 
All  that's  behind  us  !     You  don't  understand 
Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 
But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak : 
And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 
-It  is  the  thing,  Love  !  so  such  thing  should  be- 
Behold  Madonna !— I  am  bold  to  say. 
I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know. 
What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 
I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep— 


! 


Y 


ANDREA    DEL   SARTO    157 

Do  easily,  too — when  I  say,  perfectly, 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps  :  yourself  are  judge, 

Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week, 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 

At  any  rate  'tis  easy,  all  of  it ! 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long  past : 

I  do  what  many  dream  of  all  their  lives, 

Dream  ?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do. 

And  fail  in  doing.  I  could  count  twenty  such 
On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town. 
Who   strive — you    don't   know    how    the   others 

strive 
To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 
Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat, — 
Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less.  Someone  says, 
(I  know  his  name,  no  matter) — so  much  less! 
Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia  :  I  am  judged. 
There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 
In   their   vexed   beating  stuffed   and    stopped-up 

brain, 
Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 
This   low-pulsed  forthright   craftsman's   hand   of 

mine. 
Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I 

know, 
Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  me, 
Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough, 
Though    they    come    back    and    cannot    tell    the 

world. 
My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 
The  sudden  blood  of  these  men  !  at  a  word- 
Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 
I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself, 
Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 


f  • 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


In 


s 


158 

Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 

Mo!"  lo-s'outUne  there  is  wrongly    raced 

His  hue  mistaken  ;  «hat  of  that  ?  or  de  ^ 

^;fai'c;;^:;trxri^^^^^^^ 

^rh:^n,a„-s  reach  should  e^ce^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
Or  whafs  a  heaven  for?     All   s  ^'^^'-^ 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  s.gh 

rh^rr^rf  :•-- lie  wond. 

vi'ndeta  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 
The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 
(•Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  .t  me.) 

w»ll    I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 
P.:  i'ng  hU  soul!  with  kings  and  l-pe^  ^  -; 
Rlchin.,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him, 
Abo        nd  through  his  art-for  it  gives  way  , 
That  arm  is  wrongly  put-and  there  aga.n- 
A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing  s  lines, 

Us  body,  so  to  speaU  :  *-  -   '-^^^l^^.^^^^^^,. 

He  means  right— that,  a  cm  j 

Still,  what  an  am. !  and  1  -uld  alter  it  ^ 

Butallthepl^t^^^^^ 

We  iight  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you^l 
Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think 
More  than  1  merit,  yes,  by  many  times 
Rat  had  you-oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow 
S;  rfect  eyeJ,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth. 


ANDREA    DEL    SARTO     159 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 
The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare — 
Had   you,  with  these    the  same,  but  brought  a 

mind  ! 
Some   women    do   so.     Had    the    mouth    there 

urged 
"  God  and  the  glory  !   never  care  for  gain. 
The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that } 
Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo ! 
Rafael  is  waiting  :  up  to  God,  all  three  !  " 
I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems  : 
Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  over-rules. 
Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self; 
The  rest  avail  not.     Why  do  I  need  you  ? 
What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo  ? 
In  this  world  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not ; 
And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive  : 
Yet    the    will's    somewhat — somewhat,    too,   the 

power — 
And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.     At  the  end, 
God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 
'Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 
That  1  am  something  underrated  here. 
Poor   this    long    while,    despised,    to    speak    the 

truth. 
I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  lea^e  home  all  day, 
For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 
The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside  ; 
But  they  speak  sometimes ;  I  must  bear  it  all. 
Well  may  they  speak  !     That  Francis,  that  first 

time. 
And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau  ! 
I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground. 
Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear. 


160  SKIES   ITALIAN 

In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look, — 

One  finger  in  his  l>eard  or  twisted  curl 

Over   his   mouth's    good    mark    that    made    the 

smile, 
One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 
The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 
I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me. 
All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls 
Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts, — 
And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond. 
This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work. 
To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward ! 
A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days  ? 
And   had    you    not    grown    restless  .  .  .  but    I 

know — 
Tis   done    and    past;    'twas   right,    my    instinct 

said ; 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray. 
And  I'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 
Out  of   the  grange  whose   four  walls    make   his 

world. 
How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way  ? 
You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 
The  triumph  was— to  reach  and  stay  there  ;  since 
I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost  ? 
Let   my    hands    frame   your  face   in  your   hair's 

gold, 
You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine  ! 
"  Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that ; 
The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 
But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife"  — 
Men  will  excuse  me.     I  am  glad  to  judge 
Both  pictures  in  your  presence  ;  clearer  grows 


ANDREA  DEL   SARTO     161 

My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 

For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives. 

Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self. 

To    Rafael  ...  I     have    known    it     all     these 

years  .  .  . 
(When    the    young    man    was   flaming    out    his 

thoughts 
Upon  a  palace- wall  for  Rome  to  see. 
Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 
*'  Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 
Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how, 
Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 
As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings. 
Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours  ! " 
To  Rafael's  ! — And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 
I  hardly  dare  .  .  .   yet,  only  you  to  see. 
Give  the  chalk  here— quick,  thus  the  line  should 

go! 

Ay,  but  the  soul !  he's  Rafael !  rub  it  out ! 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(What  he  ?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo  ? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those  ?) 

If  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost, — 

Is,    whether     you're — not     grateful — but    more 

pleased. 
Well,  let  me  think  so.     And  you  smile  indeed  ! 
This  hour  has  been  an  hour  !     Another  smile  ? 
If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 
I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend  ? 
I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 
See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now ;  there's  a  star ; 
Morello's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall. 
The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by. 
C  ome  from  the  window.  Love, — come  in,  at  last, 
L 


162  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 
We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 
King  Francis  may  forgive  me  :  oft  at  nights 
When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 
The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 
Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold, 
That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with  ! 
Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go ? 
That  Cousin  here  again  ?  he  waits  outside  ? 
Must   see  you— you,  and  not  with   me  ?    Those 

loans  ? 
More  gaming  debts  to  pay  ?  you  smiled  for  that  ? 
Well,  let  smiles  buy  me  I  have  you  more  to  spend  . 
While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 
Are   left    me,    work's   my    ware,   and   what's   it 

worth  ? 
I'll  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 
The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 
Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 
How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  France, 
One  picture,  just  one  more— the  Virgin's  face. 
Not  yours  this  time  I  I  want  you  at  my  side 
To  hear  them— that  is,  Michel  Agnolo— 
Judge  all  I  do,  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 
Will  you  ?     To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 
I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor. 
Finish  the  portraits  out  of  hand— there,  there. 
And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 
If  he  demurs;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 
To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.     Beside, 
What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care  about. 
Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff! 
Love,  does  that  please  you  >     Ah,  but  what  does  he, 
The  Cousin !  what  does  he  to  please  you  more  ? 


ANDREA  DEL   SARTO    163 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it.^ 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis ! — it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied. 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own  }  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich  !  Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they 

died : 
And  I  have  laboured  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures — let  him  try  ! 
No  doubt,  there's  something   strikes  a   balance. 

Yes, 
You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This  must   suffice    me    here.     What    would   one 

have? 
In    heaven,   perhaps,    new    chances,    one    more 

chance — 
Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed. 
For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo  and  me 
To  cover — the  three  first  without  a  wife. 
While  I  have  mine  !     So — still  they  overcome 
Because  there's  still  Lucrezia, — as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle  !     Go,  my  Love. 

Robert  Browning 


164 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


ON   THE   MEDUSA   OF  LEONARDO   DA 
VINCI   IN   THE  FLORENTINE   GALLERY 


IT  lieth,  gazing  on  the  midnight  sky, 
Upon  the  cloudy  mountain  peak  supine ; 
Below,  far  lands  are  seen  tremblingly  ; 

Its  horror  and  its  beauty  I  divine. 
Upon  its  lips  and  eyelids  seems  to  lie 

Loveliness  like  a  shadow,  from  which  shine. 
Fiery  and  lurid,  struggling  underneath, 
The  agonies  of  anguish  and  of  death. 

II 

Yet  it  is  less  the  horror  than  the  grace 
Which  turns  the  gazer's  spirit  into  stone ; 

Whereon  the  lineaments  of  that  dead  face 
Are  graven,  till  the  characters  be  grown 

Into  itself,  and  thought  no  more  can  trace ; 
'Tis  the  melodious  hue  of  beauty  thrown 

Athwart  the  darkness  and  the  glare  of  pain. 

Which  humanize  and  harmonize  the  strain. 


Ill 


And  from  its  head  as  from  one  body  grow, 

As  grass  out  of  a  watery  rock. 
Hairs  which  are  vipers,  and  they  curl  and  flow 

And  their  long  tangles  in  each  other  lock. 
And  with  unending  involutions  show 

Their  mailed  radiance,  as  it  were  to  mock 
The  torture  and  the  death  within,  and  saw 
The  solid  air  with  many  a  ragged  jaw. 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPl        165 

IV 

And  from  a  stone  beside,  a  poisonous  eft 
Peeps  idly  into  those  Gorgonian  eyes ; 

Whilst  in  the  air  a  ghastly  bat,  bereft 
Of  sense,  has  flitted  with  a  mad  surprise 

Out  of  the  cave  this  hideous  light  had  cleft, 
And  he  comes  hastening  like  a  moth  that  hies 

After  a  taper ;  and  the  midnight  sky 

Flares,  a  light  more  dread  than  obscurity. 


'Tis  the  tempestuous  loveliness  of  terror ; 

For  from  the  serpents  gleams  a  brazen  glare 
Kindled  by  that  inextricable  error. 

Which  makes  a  thrilling  vapour  of  the  air 
Become  a  [         ]  and  ever-shifting  mirror 

Of  all  the  beauty  and  the  terror  there — 
A  woman's  countenance,  with  serpent  locks. 
Gazing  in  death  on  heaven  from  those  wet  rocks. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI 

I  AM  poor  brother  Lippo  by  your  leave  ! 
You  need  not  clap  your  torches  to  my  face. 
Zooks,  what's  to  blame  ?  you  think  you  see  a  monk! 
What,  'tis  past  midnight,  and  you  go  the  rounds. 
And  here  you  catch  me  at  an  alley's  end 
Where  sportive  ladies  leave  their  doors  ajar  ? 
The  Carmine's  my  cloister :  hunt  it  up. 
Do, — harry  out,  if  you  must  show  your  zeal, 
Whatever  rat,  there,  haps  on  his  wrong  hole. 
And  nip  each  softling  of  a  wee  white  mouse. 


166  SKIES   ITALIAN 

Weke,  weke,  that's  crept  to  keep  him  company ! 
Aha,  you  know  your  betters  !     Then,  you'll  take 
Your  hand  away  that's  fiddling  on  my  throat. 
And  please  to  know  me  likewise.     Who  am  I  ? 
Why,  one,  sir,  who  is  lodging  with  a  friend 
Three  streets  off— he's  a  certain  .  .  .  how  d'ye  call? 
Master— a  .   .  .  Cosimo  of  the  Medici, 
r  the  house    that   caps   the    corner.     Boh!  you 

w^ere  best  I 
Remember  and  tell  me,  the  day  you're  hanged, 
How  you  affected  such  a  gullet's-gripe  ! 
But  you,  sir,  it  concerns  you  that  your  knaves 
Pick  up  a  manner  nor  discredit  you  : 
Zooks,  are  we  pilchards,  that  they  sweep  the  streets 
And  count  lair  prize  what  comes  into  their  net  ? 
He's  Judas  to  a  tittle,  that  man  is  ! 
Just  such  a  face !     Why,  sir,  you  make  amends. 
Lord,  I'm  not  angry  !     Bid  your  hangdogs  go 
Drink  out  this  quarter-florin  to  the  health 
Of  the  munificent  House  that  harbours  me 
(And  many  more  beside,  lads  !  more  beside  !) 
And  all's  come  square  again.     I'd  like  his  face— 
His,  elbowing  on  his  comrade  in  the  door 
Witii  the   pike  and  lantern,— for  the  slave  that 

holds 
John  Baptist's  head  a-dangle  by  the  hair 
With  one  hand  ("  Look  you,  now,"  as  who  should 

say) 
And  his  weapon  in  the  other,  yet  unwiped  ! 
It's  not  your  chance  to  have  a  bit  of  chalk, 
A  wood-coal  or  the  like  ?  or  you  should  see  ! 
Yes,  I'm  the  painter,  since  you  style  me  so. 
What,  brother  Lippo's  doings,  up  and  down. 
You  know  them  and  they  take  you  ?  like  enough  ! 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI        167 

I  saw  the  proper  twinkle  in  your  eye— 

'Tell  you,  I  liked  your  looks  at  very  first. 

Let's   sit   and    set    things    straight   now,  hip    to 

haunch. 
Here's  spring  come,  and  the  nights  one  makes 

up  bands 
To  roam  the  town  and  sing  out  carnival. 
And  I've  been  three  weeks  shut  within  my  mew, 
A-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints  and  saints 
And  saints  again.      I  could  not  paint  all  night— 
Ouf !     I  leaned  out  of  window  for  fresh  air. 
There  came  a  hurry  of  feet  and  little  feet, 
A   sweep  of  lute-strings,  laughs,  and  whifts  of 

song,— 
Flower  o  the  broom, 

Take  (iivai)  love,  and  our  earth  is  a  tomb  ! 
Flofver  o  the  quince, 

I  let  Lisa  go,  and  what  good  in  life  since  ? 
Flower   o    the   thi/me—Rnd  so   on.      Round   they 

went. 
Scarce  had  they  turned  the  corner  when  a  titter 
Like   the    skii)ping   of  rabbits   by   moonlight,— 

three  slim  shapes, 
And  a  face  that  looked  up  .  .  .  zooks,  sir,  flesh 

and  blood. 
That's  all  I'm  made  of!     Into  shreds  it  went, 
Curtain  and  counterpane  and  coverlet. 
All  the  bed-furniture— a  dozen  knots. 
There  was  a  ladder  !     Down  I  let  myself, 
Hands   and    feet,   scrambling    somehow,   and    so 

dropped. 
And  after  them.     I  came  up  with  the  fun 
Hard  by  Saint  I^urence,  hail  fellow,  well  met,— 
Flower  o  the  rose. 


168 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


If  Tve  been  merry ^  ivhat  matter  who  knows  ? 

And  so  as  I  was  stealing  back  again 

To  get  to  bed  and  have  a  bit  of  sleep 

Ere  I  rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  work 

On  Jerome  knocking  at  his  poor  old  breast 

With  his  great  round  stones  to  subdue  the  flesh, 

You  snap  me  of  the  sudden.     Ah,  I  see  ! 

Though  your  eye  twinkles  still,  you  shake  your 

head- 
Mine's  shaved— a  monk,  you  say — the  sting's  in 

that! 
If  Master  Cosimo  announced  himself. 
Mum's  the  word  naturally  ;  but  a  monk  ! 
Come,  what  am  I  a  beast  for  ?  tell  us,  now  ! 
I  was  a  baby  when  my  mother  died 
And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the  street. 
I  starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a  year  or  two 
On  fig-skins,  melon-parings,  rinds  and  shucks. 
Refuse  and  rubbish.     One  fine  frosty  day. 
My  stomach  being  empty  as  your  hat. 
The  wind  doubled  me  up  and  down  I  went. 
Old  Aunt  Lapaccia  trussed  me  with  one  hand, 
(Its  fellow  was  a  stinger  as  I  knew) 
And  so  along  the  wall,  over  the  bridge, 
By  the  straight  cut  to  the  convent.     Six  words 

there, 
While    I    stood   munching    my    first   bread    that 

month : 
"So,  boy,  you're   minded,"  quoth   the   good   fat 

father. 
Wiping  his  own  mouth,  'twas  refection-time, — 
"  To  quit  this  very  miserable  world  ? 
Will   you   renounce"     .     .     .    "the    mouthful   of 

bread  ?  "  thought  I  ; 


^\ 


FRA   LTPPO   LIPPI 


169 


By  no  means  !     Brief,  they  made  a  monk  of  me  ; 
I  did  renounce  the  world,  its  pride  and  greed. 
Palace,  farm,  villa,  shop,  and  banking-house, 
Trash,  such  as  these  poor  devils  of  Medici 
Have  given   their  hearts  to— all  at  eight  years 

old. 
Well,  sir,  I  found  in  time,  you  may  be  sure, 
'Twas  not  for  nothing— the  good  bellyful. 
The  warm  serge  and  the  rope  that  goes  all  round. 
And  day-long  blessed  idleness  beside  ! 
"Let's  see  what  the  urchin's  fit  for" — that  came 

next. 
Not  overmuch  their  way,  I  must  confess. 
Such  a  to-do  !     They  tried  me  with  their  books  ; 
Lord,  they'd  have  taught  me  Latin  in  pure  waste  ! 
Flower  o  the  clove, 

All  the  Latin  I  construe  is  "  atno,"  I  love  ! 
But,  mind  you,  when  a  boy  starves  in  the  streets 
Eight  years  together,  as  my  fortune  was. 
Watching  folk's  faces  to  know  who  will  fling 
The  bit  of  half-stripped  grape-bunch  he  desires. 
And  who  will  curse  or  kick  him  for  his  pains, — 
Which  gentleman  processional  and  fine. 
Holding  a  candle  to  the  Sacrament, 
Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a  plate  and  catch 
The  droppings  of  the  wax  to  sell  again. 
Or  holla  for  the  Eight  and  have  him  whipped,— 
How   say  I? — nay,  which   dog  bites,  which  lets 

drop 
His  bone  from  the  heap  of  offal  in  the  street,— 
Why,  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp  alike. 
He  learns  the  look  of  things,  and  none  the  less 
For  admonition  from  the  hunger-pinch. 
I  had  a  store  of  such  remarks,  be  sure. 


170  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Which,  after  I  found  leisure,  turned  to  use. 
I  drew  men's  faces  on  my  copy-books, 
Scrawled  them  within  the  antiphonary's  marge, 
Joined  legs  and  arms  to  the  long  music-notes. 
Found  eyes  and  nose  and  chin  to  A's  and  B's, 
And  made  a  string  of  pictures  of  the  world 
Betwixt  the  ins  and  outs  of  verb  and  noun. 
On  the  wall,  the  bench,  the  door.     The  monks 

looked  black. 
"Nay,"   quoth    the    Prior,  "turn    him    out   d'ye 

say  ? 
In  no  wise.     Lose  a  crow  and  catch  a  lark. 
What  if  at  last  we  get  our  man  of  parts, 
We  Carmelites,  like  those  Camaldolese 
And  Preaching  Friars,  to  do  our  church  up  fine 
And  put  the  front  on  it  that  ought  to  be  !  " 
And  hereupon  he  made  me  daub  away. 
Thank  you !  my  head  being  crammed,  the  walls 

a  blank. 
Never  was  such  prompt  disemburdening. 
First,  every  sort  of  monk,  the  black  and  white, 
I  drew  them,  fat  and  lean :  then,  folk  at  church, 
From  good  old  gossips  waiting  to  confess 
Their  cribs  of  barrel-droppings,  candle-ends,— 
To  the  breathless  fellow  at  the  altar  foot. 
Fresh  from  his  murder,  safe  and  sitting  there 
With  the  little  children  round  him  in  a  row 
Of  admiration,  half  for  his  beard  and  half 
For  that  white  anger  of  his  victim's  son 
Shaking  a  fist  at  him  with  one  fierce  arm, 
Signing  himself  with  the  other  because  of  Christ 
(Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  sees  only  this 
After  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years) 
Till  some  poor  girl,  her  apron  o'er  her  head. 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI        171 

(Which  the  intense  eyes  looked  through)  came  at 

eve 
On  tiptoe,  said  a  word,  dropped  in  a  loaf. 
Her  pair  of  earrings  and  a  bunch  of  flowers 
(The  brute  took  growling),  prayed,  and  so  was 

gone. 
I  painted  all,  then  cried,  "  'Tis  ask  and  have ; 
Choose,  for  more's  ready  !  "—laid  the  ladder  flat. 
And  showed  my  covered  bit  of  cloister-wall. 
The  monks  closed  in  a  circle  and  praised  loud 
Till  checked,  taught  what  to  see  and  not  to  see, 
Being  simple  bodies,-"  That's  the  very  man  ! 
Look  at  the  boy  who  stoops  to  pat  the  dog  ! 
That  woman's  like  the  Prior's  niece  who  comes 
To  care  about  his  asthma  !  it's  the  life  !  " 
But   there    my    triumph's    straw-fire    flared    and 

funked  ; 
Their  betters  took  their  turn  to  see  and  say  : 
The  Prior  and  the  learned  pulled  a  face 
And  stopped  all  that  in  no  time.     ^^  How  ?  what's 

here  ? 
Quite  from  the  mark  of  painting,  bless  us  all  ! 
Faces,  arms,  legs,  and  bodies  like  the  true 
As  much  as  pea  and  pea  !  it's  devil's-game  ! 
Your  business  is  not  to  catch  men  with  show, 
With  homage  to  the  perishable  clay, 
But  lift  them  over  it,  ignore  it  all, 
Make  them  forget  there's  such  a  thing  as  flesh. 
Your  business  is  to  paint  the  souls  of  men—        ^ 
Man's  soul,  and  it's  a  fire,  smoke  ...  no,   it  s 

not  .  .  . 
It's  a  vapour  done  up  like  a  new-bom  babe— 
(In  that  shape  when  you  die  it  leaves  your  mouth) 
It's      .  .  well,  what  matter's  talking,  it's  the  soul ! 


172 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


Give  us  no  more  of  body  than  shows  soul ! 
Here's  Giotto,  with  his  Saint  a-praising  God, 
That  sets  us  praising, — why  not  stop  with  him  ? 
Why  put  all  thoughts  of  praise  out  of  our  head 
With  wonder  at  lines,  colours,  and  what  not  ? 
Paint  the  soul,  never  mind  the  legs  and  arms ! 
Rub  all  out,  try  at  it  a  second  time. 
Oh,  that  white  smallish  female  with  the  breasts. 
She's  just  my  niece  .  .  .   Herodias,  I  would  say, — 
Who  went  and  danced  and  got  men's  heads  cut 

off! 
Have  it  all  out !  "     Now,  is  this  sense,  I  ask  ? 
A  fine  way  to  paint  soul,  by  painting  body 
So  ill,  the  eye  can't  stop  there,  must  go  further 
And    can't    fare    worse !     Thus   yellow    does   for 

white 
When  what  you  put  for  yellow's  simply  black. 
And  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 
When  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks  naught. 
Why  can't  a  painter  lift  each  foot  in  turn. 
Left  foot  and  right  foot,  go  a  double  step, 
Make  his  flesh  liker  and  his  soul  more  like, 
Both  in  their  order  ?     Take  the  prettiest  face, 
The     Prior's     niece  .  .  .  patron-saint — is    it    so 

pretty 
You  can't  discover  if  it  means  hope,  fear. 
Sorrow  or  joy  r  won't  beauty  go  with  these  ? 
Suppose  I've  made  her  eyes  all  right  and  blue. 
Can't  I  take  breath  and  try  to  add  life's  flash. 
And  then  add  soul  and  heighten  them  three-fold  } 
Or  say  there's  beauty  with  no  soul  at  all — 
(I  never  saw  it — put  the  case  the  same — ) 
If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  naught  else. 
You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents : 


FRA    LIPPO   LIPPI        173 

That's  somewhat:    and  you'll  find  the   soul  you 

have  missed. 
Within  yourself,  when  you  return  Him  thanks. 
«  Rub  all  out ! "     Well,  well,  there's  my  life,  in 

short. 
And  so  the  thing  has  gone  on  ever  since. 
I'm  grown  a  man  no  doubt.     I've  broken  bounds  : 
You  should  not  take  a  fellow  eight  years  old 
And  make  him  swear  to  never  kiss  the  girls. 
I'm  my  own  master,  paint  now  as  I  please- 
Having  a  friend,  you  see,  in  the  Corner-house  ! 
Lord,  it's  fast  holding  by  the  rings  in  front— 
Those  great  rings  serve  more  purposes  than  just 
To  plant  a  flag  in,  or  tie  up  a  horse  ! 
And  yet  the  old  schooling  sticks,  the  old  grave 

eyes 
Are  peeping  o'er  my  shoulder  as  I  work. 
The    heads  shake  still— "  It's  art's   decline,  my 

son ! 
You're  not  of  the  true  painters,  great  and  old  ; 
Brother  Angelico's  the  man,  you'll  find ; 
Brother  Lorenzo  stands  his  single  peer  : 
Fag  on  at  flesh,  you'll  never  make  the  third  ! " 

Flofver  o  the  pine, 

You  keep  your  mistr  .  .  .  uianners,  and  Vll  stick  to 

mine  . 
I'm  not  the  third,  then  :  bless  us,  they  must  know  ! 
Don't  you  think  they're  the  likeliest  to  know, 
They  with  their  Latin  ?     So,  I  swallow  my  rage, 
Clench    my   teeth,   suck    my    lips   in   tight,   and 

paint 
To  please    them— sometimes  do  and    sometimes 

don't ; 
For,  doing  most,  there's  pretty  sure  to  come 


t 


174 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


A  turn,  some  warm  eve  finds  me  at  my  saints— 

A  laugh,  a  cry,  the  business  of  the  world — 

(^Flower  o  the  peachy 

Death  for  us  ally  and  his  onm  life  J  or  each  !) 

And  my  whole  soul  revolves,  the  cup  runs  over, 

The  world  and  life's  too  big  to  pass  for  a  dream. 

And  I  do  these  wild  things  in  sheer  despite. 

And  play  the  fooleries  you  catch  me  at. 

In  pure  rage  !     The  old  mill-horse,  out  at  grass 

After  hard  years,  throws  up  his  stiff  heels  so, 

Although  the  miller  does  not  preach  to  him 

The  only  good  of  grass  is  to  make  chaff. 

What  would  men  have  ?     Do  they  like  grass  or 

no — 
May  they  or  mayn't  they  ?  all  I  want's  the  thing 
Settled  forever  one  way.     As  it  is. 
You  tell  too  many  lies  and  hurt  yourself: 
You  don't  like  what  you  only  like  too  much. 
You  do  like  what,  if  given  you  at  your  word, 
You  find  abundantly  detestable. 
For  me,  I  think  I  speak  as  I  was  taught ; 
1  always  see  the  garden  and  God  there 
A-making  man's  wife  :  and,  my  lesson  learned. 
The  value  and  significance  of  flesh, 
I  can't  unlearn  ten  minutes  afterwards. 


You  understand  me :   I'm  a  beast,  I  know. 
But  see,  now — why,  I  see  as  certainly 
As  that  the  morning-star's  about  to  shine. 
What   will   hap   some   day.     We've  a  youngster 

here 
Comes  to  our  convent,  studies  what  I  do. 
Slouches  and  stares  and  lets  no  atom  drop : 
His  name  is  Guidi — he'll  not  mind  the  monks — 


FRA    LIPPO    LIPPI        175 

They  call  him  Hulking  Tom,  he  lets  them  talk- 
He  picks  my  practice  up— he'll  paint  apace, 
I  hope  so— though  I  never  live  so  long, 
1  know  what's  sure  to  follow.     You  be  judge  ! 
You  speak  no  Latin  more  than  I,  belike ; 
However,  you're  my  man,  you've  seen  the  world— 
The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and  the  power. 
The  shapes  of  things,   their  colours,  lights  and 

shades. 
Changes,  surprises,— and  God  made  it  all ! 
For  what  ?     Do  you  feel  thankful,  ay  or  no. 
For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river's  line, 
The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above. 
Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman,  child. 
These  are  the  frame  to  ?     What's  it  all  about  ? 
To  be  passed  over,  despised  ?  or  dwelt  upon. 
Wondered  at  ?  oh,  this  last,  of  course  !- you  say. 
But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say,— paint  these 
Just  as  they  are,  careless  what  comes  of  it  .> 
God's  works— paint  any  one,  and  count  it  crime 
To  let  a  truth  sUp.     Don't  object,  '^  His  works 
Are  here  already  ;  nature  is  complete : 
Suppose  you  reproduce  her— (which  you  can't) 
There's  no  advantage  !  you  must  beat  her,  then." 
For,  don't  you  mark?    we're  made  so  that  we 

love 
First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have 

passed 
Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see ; 
And  so  they  are  better,  painted— better  to  us. 
Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  was  given  for  that ; 
God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so. 
Lending  our  minds  out.     Have  you  noticed,  now, 
Your  cullion's  hanging  face  }     A  bit  of  chalk. 


176  SKIES   ITALIAN 

And    trust  me  but  you    should,   though  !     How 

much  more, 
If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth  ! 
That  were  to  take  the  Prior's  pulpit-place, 
Interpret  God  to  all  of  you  !     Oh,  oh, 
It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do 
And  we  in  our  graves  !     This  world's  no  blot  for  us, 
Nor  blank  ;  it  means  intensely,  and  means  good  : 
To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 
'*  Ay,  but  you  don't  so  instigate  to  prayer  ! " 
Strikes  in  the  Prior:  "  when  your  meaning's  plain 
It  does  not  say  to  folk — remember  matins, 
Or,  mind  you  fast  next  Friday  !  "     Why,  for  this 
What  need  of  art  at  all  ?     A  skull  and  bones. 
Two  bits  of  stick  nailed  crosswise,  or,  what's  best, 
A  bell  to  chime  the  hour  with,  does  as  well. 
I  painted  a  Saint  Laurence  six  months  since 
At  Prato,  splashed  the  fresco  in  fine  style  : 
"How   looks    my    painting,   now    the    scaffold's 

down? " 
I  ask  a  brother:  "  Hugely,"  he  returns— 
"  Already  not  one  phiz  of  your  three  slaves 
Who  turn  the  Deacon  off  his  toasted  side, 
But's  scratched  and  prodded  to  our  heart's  content. 
The  pious  people  have  so  eased  their  own 
With  coming  to  say  prayers  there  in  a  rage : 
We  get  on  fast  to  see  the  bricks  beneath. 
Expect  another  job  this  time  next  year. 
For  pity  and  religion  grow  i'  the  crowd— 
Your  painting  serves  its  purpose  ! "       Hang  the 

fools ! 

That  is — you'll  not  mistake  an  idle  word 

Spoke  in  a  huff  by  a  poor  monk,  God  wot. 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI        177 

Tasting  the  air  this  spicy  night  which  turns 

The  unaccustomed  head  like  Chianti  wine ! 

Oh,  the  church  knows  !  don't  misreport  me,  now  ! 

It's  natural  a  poor  monk  out  of  bounds 

Should  have  his  apt  word  to  excuse  himself: 

And  hearken  how  I  plot  to  make  amends. 

I  have  bethought  me :  I  shall  paint  a  piece 

.  .  .  There's  for  you  !     Give  me  six  months,  then 

go,  see 
Something  in  Sant'  Ambrogio's  !     Bless  the  nuns  ! 
They  want  a  cast  o'  my  office.     I  shall  paint 
God  in  the  midst.  Madonna  and  her  babe. 
Ringed  by  a  bowery,  flowery  angel-brood, 
Lilies  and  vestments  and  white  faces,  sweet 
As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root 
When  ladies  crowd  to  church  at  midsummer. 
And  then  i'  the  front,  of  course  a  saint  or  two — 
Saint  John,  because  he  saves  the  Florentines, 
Saint   Ambrose,    who   puts   down   in   black   and 

white 
The  convent's  friends  and  gives  them  a  long  day. 
And  Job,  I  must  have  him  there  past  mistake. 
The  man  of  Uz  (and  Us  without  the  z. 
Painters    who    need    his    patience).      Well,    all 

these 
Secured  at  their  devotion,  up  shall  come 
Out  of  a  corner  when  you  least  expect. 
As  one  by  a  dark  stair  into  a  great  light. 
Music  and  talking,  who  but  Lippo  !     I ! — 
Mazed,    motionless,    and    moonstruck — I'm    the 

man ! 
Back  I  shrink — what  is  this  I  see  and  hear  ? 
I,  caught  up  with  my  monk's-things  by  mistake. 
My  old  serge  gown  and  rope  that  goes  all  round, 

M 


178  SKIES   ITALIAN 

I,  in  this  presence,  this  pure  company  ! 

Where's  a  hole,  there's  a  comer  for  escape  ? 

Then  steps  a  sweet  angelic  slip  of  a  th.ng        ^ 

Forward,  puts  out  a  soft  palm-" Not  so  fast! 

—Addresses  the  celestial  presence,     nay- 
He  made  you  and  devised  you,  after  all, 

Though   he's  none   of  you !     Could  Sa.nt  John 

there  draw— 
His  camel-hair  make  up  a  painting-brush . 
We  come  to  brother  Lippo  for  all  that, 
Iste  per  fecit  opus!-     So,  all  smile- 
I  shuffle  sideways  with  my  blushing  face 
Under  the  cover  of  a  hundred  wuigs 
Thrown  like  a  spread  of  kirtles  when  you  re  gay 
And  play  hot  cockles,  all  the  doors  bemg  shut, 
Till,  wholly  unexpected,  in  there  pops 
The  hothead  husband  !     Thus  I  scuttle  off 
To  some  safe  bench  behind,  not  letting  go 
The  palm  of  her,  the  little  lily  thing 
That  spoke  the  good  word  for  me  in  the  nick 
Like  the  Prior  s  niece  .  .  .  Saint  Lucy,  I  would 

AnTso  all's  saved  for  me,  and  for  the  church 

A  pretty  picture  gained.     Go,  six  --"^^^^  ^^"^^^ 

Your   hand,   sir,   and   good-bye  :    no   lights,   no 

Th?str^^^       hushed,  and   I   know  my  own  way 

Do'^n'fVear   me!      There's   the    gray   beginning. 

^'''''^'  •  Bobert  Bronming 


SPRING 


179 


THE   MADONNA 

With  the  Christ  Child  and  John  the  Baptist 
{An  Old  Painting) 

BY  premonitions,  Mary,  art  thou  stirred, 
While  the  young  babe  looks  upward  to  thy 

face? 
For  thou  so  fondly  pensive,  seem'st  to  trace 

An  unknown  grief  impending,  yet  deferred. 

Thy  mouth  is  sweet  with  silence, — not  a  word 
Parts  the  pure  lips  ;  that  calm  brow  doth  erase 
All  look  of  suffering  by  its  saintly  grace, 

And  yet,— some  voice  prophetic  thou  hast  heard ! 

Doth  a  dim  prescience  of  the  invading  years 
Cause  thee,  with  such  solicitude,  to  bend 
Above  the  innocent  pair  about  thy  knee  } 
Dost  thou  divine  the  anguish  deep— the  tears— 
For  these  two  little  ones  the  pitiful  end — 
The  shadow  of  Herod  and  of  Calvary  ? 

Lloyd  Mifflin 


SPRING 

{By    Sandro    Botticelli,    in    the    Accademia    of 

Florence) 


w 


Honours  this  Lady  ?     Flora,  wanton-eyed 
For    birth,  and   with   all    flowrets   prankt  and 
pied : 
Aurora,  Zephyrus,  with  mutual  cheer 


180  SKIES   ITALIAN 

Of  clasp  and  kiss  :  the  Graces  circling  near, 
'Neath  bower-linked  arch  of  white  arms  glori- 
fied :  ,    1  . 
And  with  those  feathered  feet  which  hovering 

glide 
O'er  Spring's  brief  bloom,  Hermes  the  harbinger. 

Birth-bare,  not  death-bare  yet,  the  young  stems 

stand. 
This  Lady's  temple-columns  :  o'er  her  head 
Love  wings  his  shaft.    What  mystery  here  is  read 
Of  homage  or  of  hope  ?     But  how  command 
Dead  springs  to  answer  ?  And  how  question  here 
These  mummers  of  that  wind-withered  New- 
Year  ? 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 


UCCEIJ.O 


181 


MASACCIO 

(/»  the  Brancacci  Chapel) 

HE  came  to  Florence  long  ago, 
And  painted  here  these  walls,  that  shone 
For  Raphael  and  for  Angelo, 
With  secrets  deeper  than  his  own. 
Then  shrank  into  the  dark  again, 
And  died,  we  know  not  how  or  when. 

The  shadows  deepened,  and  I  turned 
Half  sadly  from  the  fresco  grand  ; 
«  And  is  this,"  mused  I,  "all  ye  earned. 
High-vaulted  brain  and  cunning  hand. 
That  ye  to  greater  men  could  teach 
The  skill  yourselves  could  never  reach  }  " 


^'  And  who  were  they,"  I    mused,  "that  wrought 
Through  pathless  wilds,  with  labour  long. 
The  highways  of  our  daily  thought  ? 
Who  reared  those  towers  of  earliest  song 
That  lift  us  from  the  throng  to  peace 
Remote  in  sunny  silences  ?  " 

Out  clanged  the  Ave  Mary  bells, 
And  to  my  heart  this  message  came  : 
Each  clamorous  throat  among  them  tells 
What  strong-souled  martyrs  died  in  flame 
To  make  it  possible  that  thou 
Shouldst  here  with  brother-sinners  bow. 

Thoughts  that  great  hearts  once  broke  for,  we 
Breathe  cheaply  in  the  common  air ; 
The  dust  we  trample  heedlessly 
Throbbed  once  in  saints  and  heroes  rare. 
Who  perished,  opening  for  their  race 
New  pathways  to  the  commonplace. 

Henceforth,  when  rings  the  health  to  those 

Who  live  in  story  and  in  song, 

O  nameless  dead,  that  now  repose 

Safe  in  Oblivion's  chambers  strong. 

One  cup  of  recognition  true 

Shall  silently  be  drained  to  you  ! 

James  Russell  Lowell 

UCCELLO 

THIS  is  the  house  where  once  Uccello  lived, 
Through    this    same     doorway    passed     his 
trembling  feet. 
Beyond  the  gates  of  Florence  took  their  way,— 
A  quaint,  sad  figure  in  the  busy  street. 


i 


182 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


Upon  these  walls,  now  dark  and  dim  with  age 
(Yet  to  all  time  some  touches  may  endure), 

Live  the  dumb  creatures  that  he  loved  so  well, 
Each  with  its  own  poetic  jwrtraiture. 


PICTOR    IGNOTUS        183 

Yet  now  she  crowns  him  proudly  as  her  son, 
And  gives  to  him  at  last  immortal  fame, 

And  all  can  read  who  pass  the  crowded  way 
Engraved  upon  this  door  Uccello's  name. 

Sarah  D.  Clarke 


t 


A  meek,  most  fanciful,  and  timid  soul. 
Daily  to  loving  birds  he  talked  and  read. 

While  they,  with  tender  warbling  soft  and  low, 
Fluttered  forever  round  his  patient  head. 

And  often  did  these  feathered  songsters  bring 
(As  to  St  Francis  in  the  days  of  yore). 

When  all  the  world  looked  dark  and  drear  to  him. 
Most  heavenly  solace  from  their  bounteous  store. 

With  the  celestial  melody  there  grew 

Strange  computations  working  in  his  brain ; 

Dimensions  visible  of  airy  lines. 

Dreamed  of,  and  thought,  and  dreamed  of  o'er 
again. 

He  took  from  heaven  immeasurable  gifts, 

And  gave  them  to  the  world,  before  untaught ; 

He  held  his  soul  harmonious  with  the  spheres, 
And     problems    solved,    unknown    to    mortal 
thought. 

Yet  for  all  this,  gay  Florence  loved  him  not. 
Victorious,  bright  with  laughter  and  with  song  ; 

In  him  she  only  saw  a  meek,  sad  soul. 
Of  little  worth  amid  her  brilliant  throng. 


PICTOR   IGNOTUS 

(Florence,  15 — ) 

I  COULD    have    painted    pictures    like    that 
youth's 
Ye  praise  so.     How  my  soul  springs  up  !    No  bar 
Stayed  me— ah,  thought  which  saddens  while  it 
soothes ! 
—Never  did  fate  forbid  me,  star  by  star, 
To  outburst  on  your  night  with  all  my  gift 

Of  fires  from  God  :  nor  would  my  flesh  have 
shrunk 
From  seconding  my  soul,  with  eyes  uplift 

And  wide  to  heaven,  or,  straight  like  thunder, 

sunk 
To  the  centre,  of  an  instant ;  or  around 

Turned  calmly  and  inquisitive,  to  scan 
The  license  and  the  limit,  space  and  bound. 

Allowed  to  truth  made  visible  in  man. 
And,  like  that  youth  ye  praise  so,  all  I  saw. 

Over  the  canvas  could  my  hand  have  flung. 
Each  face  obedient  to  its  passion's  law, 

Each  passion  clear  proclaimed  without  a  tongue  ; 
Whether  Hope  rose  at  once  in  all  the  blood, 

A-tiptoe  for  the  blessing  of  embrace. 
Or  rapture  drooped  the  eyes,  as  when  her  brood 

Pull  down  the  nesting  dove's  heart  to  its  place ; 


184 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


ii 


Or  Confidence  lit  swift  the  forehead  up, 

And    locked    the    mouth    fast,    like   a   castle 
braved, — 
O  human  faces,  hath  it  spilt,  my  cup  ? 

What  did  ye  give  me  that  I  have  not  saved  ? 
Nor  will  I  say  I  have  not  dreamed  (how  well !) 

Of  going — I,  in  each  new  picture, — forth. 
As,  making  new  hearts  beat  and  bosoms  swell. 

To  Pope  or  Kaiser,  East,  West,  South  or  North, 
Bound  for  the  calmly  satisfied  great  State, 

Or  glad  aspiring  little  burgh,  it  went. 
Flowers  cast  upon  the  car  which  bore  the  freight, 

Through    old   streets   named    afresh    from  the 
event, 
Till  it  reached  home,  where  learned  age  should 
greet 

My  face,  and  youth,  the  star  not  yet  distinct 
Above  his  hair,  lie  learning  at  my  feet ! — 

Oh,  thus  to  live,  I  and  my  picture,  linked 
With  love  about,  and  praise,  till  life  should  end, 

And  then  not  go  to  heaven,  but  linger  here, 
Here    on    my     earth,    earth's    every    man    my 
friend, — 

The    thought  grew   frightful,  /twas  so   wildly 
dear ! 
But  a  voice  changed  it.     Glimpses  of  such  sights 

Have  scared  me,  like  the  revels  through  a  door 
Of  some  strange  house  of  idols  at  its  rites  ! 

This  world  seemed  not  the  world  it  was  before  : 
Mixed  with  my  loving  trusting  ones,  there  trooped 

.  .  .  Who   summoned    those    cold    faces  that 
begun 
To  press  on  me  and  judge  me  ?     Though  I  stooped 

Shrinking,  as  from  the  soldiery  a  nun. 


PICTOR   IGNOTUS         185 


They     drew    me   forth,    and    spite  of   me  .  .  . 
enough ! 
These  buy  and  sell  our  pictures,  take  and  give, 
Count  them  for  garniture  and  household-stuff, 
And  where  they  live  needs  must  our  pictures 
live 
And  see  their  faces,  listen  to  their  prate, 

Partakers  of  their  daily  pettiness. 
Discussed  of, — "  This  I  love,  or  this  I  hate, 

This  likes  me  more,  and  this  affects  me  less  !" 
Wherefore  I  chose  my  portion.     If  at  whiles 

My  heart  sinks,  as  monotonous  I  paint 
These  endless  cloisters  and  eternal  aisles 

With  the  same  series.  Virgin,  Babe  and  Saint, 
With  the  same  cold  calm  beautiful  regard, — 
At  least  no  merchant  traffics  in  my  heart ; 
The  sanctuary's  gloom  at  least  shall  ward 

Vain  tongues  from  where  my   pictures   stand 
apart : 
Only  prayer  breaks  the  silence  of  the  shrine 

While,  blackening  in  the  daily  candle-smoke. 
They  moulder  on  the  damp  wall's  travertine, 
'Mid  echoes  the  light  footstep  never  woke. 
So,  die  my  pictures  !  surely,  gently  die  ! 

O  youth,  men  praise  so, — holds  their  praise  its 
worth  ? 
Blown  harshly,  keeps  the  trump  its  golden  cry  ? 
Tastes   sweet  the   water  with  such  specks  of 
earth  ? 

Robert  Browning 


fr 


186  SKIES    ITALIAN 


THE  CAMPAGNA   OF   FLORENCE 

TIS  morning.     Let  us  wander  through    the 
fields, 
Where  Cimabue  found  a  shepherd-boy 
Tracing  his  idle  fancies  on  the  ground  ; 
And  let  us  from  the  top  of  Fiesole, 
Whence  Galileo's  glass  by  night  observed 
The  phases  of  the  moon,  look  round  below 
On  Arno's  vale,  where  the  dove-coloured  steer 
Is  ploughing  up  and  down  among  the  vines, 
While  many  a  careless  note  is  sung  aloud. 
Filling  the  air  with  sweetness — and  on  thee, 
Beautiful  Florence,  all  within  thy  walls. 
Thy  groves  and  gardens,  pinnacles  and  towers. 
Drawn  to  our  feet. 

From   that  small  spire,  just 
caught 
By  the  bright  ray,  that  church  among  the  rest 
By  One  of  Old  distinguished  as  The  Bride, 
Let  us  in  thought  pursue  (what  can  we  better?) 
Those  who  assembled  there  at  matin-time  ; 
Who,  when  vice  revelled  and  along  the  street 
Tables  were  set,  what  time  the  bearer's  bell 
Rang  to  demand  the  dead  at  every  door, 
Came  out  into  the  meadows  ;  and,  awhile 
Wandering  in  idleness,  but  not  in  folly. 
Sate  down  in  the  high  grass  and  in  the  shade 
Of  many  a  tree  sun-proof,  day  after  day, 
When  all  was  still  and  nothing  to  be  heard 
But  the  cicala's  voice  among  the  olives. 
Relating  in  a  ring,  to  banish  care, 
Their  hundred  tales. 


CAMPAGNA  OF  FLORENCE  187 

Round  the  green  hill  they  went. 
Round  underneath, — first  to  a  splendid  house, 
Gherardi,  as  an  old  tradition  runs. 
That  on  the  left,  just  rising  from  the  vale : 
A  place  for  luxury, — the  painted  rooms. 
The  open  galleries,  and  middle  court. 
Not  unprepared,  fragrant  and  gay  with  flowers. 
Then  westward  to  another,  nobler  yet ; 
That  on  the  right,  now  known  as  the  Palmieri, 
Where  art  with  nature  vied, — a  paradise 
With  verdurous  walls,  and  many  a  trellised  walk 
All  rose  and  jasmine,  many  a  twilight-glade 
Crossed  by  the  deer.     Then  to  the  Ladies'  Vale ; 
And  the  clear  lake,  that  as  by  magic  seemed 
To  lift  up  to  the  surface  every  stone 
Of  lustre  there,  and  the  diminutive  fish 
Innumerable,  dropt  with  crimson  and  gold. 
Now  motionless,  now  glancing  to  the  sun. 
Who  has  not  dwelt  on  their  voluptuous  day  } 
The  morning-banquet  by  the  fountain-side, 
While  the  small  birds  rejoiced  on  every  bough ; 
The    dance    that    followed,    and    the    noontide 

slumber ; 
Then  the  tales  told  in  turn,  as  round  they  lay 
On  carpets,  the  fresh  water  murmuring. 
And  the  short  interval  of  pleasant  talk 
Till  supper-time,  when  many  a  siren-voice 
Sung  down  the  stars ;  and,  as  they  left  the  sky. 
The  torches,  planted  in  the  sparkling  grass. 
And  everywhere  among  the  glowing  flowers, 
Burnt  bright  and  brighter.     He,  whose  dream  it 

was, 
(It  was  no  more),  sleeps  in  a  neighbouring  vale ; 
Sleeps  in  the  church,  where,  in  his  ear,  I  ween. 


186  SKIES    ITALIAN 


THE  CAMPAGNA   OF   FLORENCE 

TIS   morning.     Let  us  wander  through    the 
fields, 
Where  Cimabue  found  a  shepherd-boy 
Tracing  his  idle  fancies  on  the  ground  ; 
And  let  us  from  the  top  of  Fiesole, 
Whence  Galileo's  glass  by  night  observed 
The  phases  of  the  moon,  look  round  below 
On  Arno's  vale,  where  the  dove-coloured  steer 
Is  ploughing  up  and  down  among  the  vines, 
While  many  a  careless  note  is  sung  aloud, 
Filling  the  air  with  sweetness — and  on  thee. 
Beautiful  Florence,  all  within  thy  walls, 
Thy  groves  and  gardens,  pinnacles  and  towers, 
Drawn  to  our  feet. 

From   that  small  spire,  just 

caught 
By  the  bright  ray,  that  church  among  the  rest 
By  One  of  Old  distinguished  as  The  Bride, 
Let  us  in  thought  pursue  (what  can  we  better?) 
Those  who  assembled  there  at  matin-time  ; 
Who,  when  vice  revelled  and  along  the  street 
Tables  were  set,  what  time  the  bearer's  bell 
Rang  to  demand  the  dead  at  every  door. 
Came  out  into  the  meadows  ;  and,  awhile 
Wandering  in  idleness,  but  not  in  folly. 
Sate  down  in  the  high  grass  and  in  the  shade 
Of  many  a  tree  sun-proof,  day  after  day. 
When  all  was  still  and  nothing  to  be  heard 
But  the  cicala's  voice  among  the  olives, 
Relating  in  a  ring,  to  banish  care, 
Their  hundred  tales. 


CAMPAGNA  OF  FLORENCE  187 

Round  the  green  hill  they  went. 
Round  underneath,— first  to  a  splendid  house, 
Gherardi,  as  an  old  tradition  runs. 
That  on  the  left,  just  rising  from  the  vale ; 
A  place  for  luxury, — the  painted  rooms. 
The  open  galleries,  and  middle  court. 
Not  unprepared,  fragrant  and  gay  with  flowers. 
Then  westward  to  another,  nobler  yet ; 
That  on  the  right,  now  known  as  the  Palmieri, 
Where  art  with  nature  vied, — a  paradise 
With  verdurous  walls,  and  many  a  trellised  walk 
All  rose  and  jasmine,  many  a  twilight-glade 
Crossed  by  the  deer.     Then  to  the  Ladies'  Vale  ; 
And  the  clear  lake,  that  as  by  magic  seemed 
To  lift  up  to  the  surface  every  stone 
Of  lustre  there,  and  the  diminutive  fish 
Innumerable,  dropt  with  crimson  and  gold. 
Now  motionless,  now  glancing  to  the  sun. 
Who  has  not  dwelt  on  their  voluptuous  day  ? 
The  morning-banquet  by  the  fountain-side. 
While  the  small  birds  rejoiced  on  every  bough ; 
The    dance    that    followed,    and    the    noontide 

slumber ; 
Then  the  Ules  told  in  turn,  as  round  they  lay 
On  carpets,  the  fresh  water  murmuring. 
And  the  short  interval  of  pleasant  talk 
Till  supper-time,  when  many  a  siren-voice 
Sung  down  the  stars ;  and,  as  they  left  the  sky. 
The  torches,  planted  in  the  sparkling  grass, 
And  everywhere  among  the  glowing  flowers, 
Burnt  bright  and  brighter.     He,  whose  dream  it 

was, 
(It  was  no  more),  sleeps  in  a  neighbouring  vale ; 
Sleeps  in  the  church,  where,  in  his  ear,  I  ween. 


^ 

\  s 


188 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


j.» 


The  friar  poured  out  his  wondrous  catalogue  ; 

A  ray,  imprimis,  of  the  star  that  shone 

To  the  wise  men  ;  a  vialful  of  sounds, 

The  musical  chimes  of  the  great  bells  that  hung 

In  Solomon's  Temple  ;  and,  though  last  not  least, 

A  feather  from  the  angel  Gabriel's  wing. 

Dropped   in   the   Virgin's    chamber.     That   dark 

ridge, 
Stretching  south-east,  conceals  it  from  our  sight ; 
Not  so  his  lowly  roof  and  scanty  farm. 
His  copse  and  rill,  if  yet  a  trace  be  left, 
Who  lived  in  Val  di  Pesa,  suffering  long 
Want  and  neglect  and  (far,  far  worse)  reproach. 
With  calm,   unclouded    mind.     The   glimmering 

tower 
On  the  gray  rock  beneath,  his  landmark  once. 
Now  serves  for  ours,  and  points  out  where  he  ate 
His  bread  with  cheerfulness.     Who  sees  him  not 
('Tis  his  own  sketch— he  drew  it  from  himself) 
Laden  with  cages  from  his  shoulder  slung, 
And  sallying  forth,  while  yet  the  morn  is  gray. 
To  catch  a  thrush  on  every  lime-twig  there ; 
Or  in  the  wood  among  his  wood-cutters  ; 
Or  in  the  tavern  by  the  highway-side 
At  tric-trac  with  the  miller  ;  or  at  night, 
Doffing  his  rustic  suit,  and,  duly  clad. 
Entering  his  closet,  and  among  his  books. 
Among  the  great  of  every  age  and  clime, 
A  numerous  court,  turning  to  whom  he  pleased, 
Questioning  each  why  he  did  this  or  that, 
And  learning  how  to  overcome  the  fear 
Of  poverty  and  death  ? 

Nearer  we  hail 
Thy  sunny  slope,  Arcetri,  sung  of  old 


CAMPAGNA  OF  FLORENCE  189 

For  its  green  wine  ;  dearer  to  me,  to  most. 

As  dwelt  on  by  that  great  astronomer. 

Seven  years  a  prisoner  at  the  city-gate. 

Let  in  but  in  his  grave-clothes.     Sacred  be 

His  villa,  justly  was  it  called  The  Gem !) 

Sacred  the  lawn,  where  many  a  cypress  threw 

Its  length  of  shadow,  while  he  watched  the  stars  I 

Sacred  the  vineyard,  where,  while  yet  his  sight 

Glimmered,  at  blush  of  morn  he  dressed  his  vines. 

Chanting  aloud  in  gayety  of  heart 

Some  verse  of  Ariosto  !     There,  unseen. 

In  manly  beauty  Milton  stood  before  him. 

Gazing  with  reverent  awe,— Milton,  his  guest. 

Just  then  come  forth,  all  life  and  enterprise ; 

He  in  his  old  age  and  extremity. 

Blind,  at  noonday,  exploring  with  his  staff; 

His  eyes  upturned  as  to  the  golden  sun, 

His  eyeballs  idly  rolling.     Little  then 

Did  Galileo  think  whom  he  received  ; 

That  in  his  hand  he  held  the  hand  of  one 

Who  could  requite  him,— who  would  spread  his 

name 
O'er  land  and  seas,— great  as  himself,  nay,  greater; 

Milton  as  little  that  in  him  he  saw. 

As  in  a  glass,  what  he  himself  should  be. 

Destined  so  soon  to  fall  on  evil  days 

And  evil  tongues,— so  soon,  alas,  to  live 

In  darkness,  and  with  dangers  compassed  round, 

And  solitude. 

Samuel  Bosers 


[tt 


I 


t 


190 


SKIES    ITALIxVN 


THE    GARDEN    OF    BOCCACCIO 

OF  late,  in  one  of  those  most  weary  hours, 
When    life    seems    emptied    of    all    genial 

powers, 
A  dreary  mood,  which  he  who  ne'er  has  known 
May  bless  his  happy  lot,  I  sate  alone  : 
And,  from  the  numbing  spell  to  win  relief, 
Called  on  the  Past  for  thought  of  glee  or  grief. 
In  vain  !  bereft  alike  of  grief  or  glee, 
I  sate  and  cowered  o'er  my  own  vacancy  ! 
And  as  I  watched  the  dull  continuous  ache. 
Which,    all    else    slumbering,    seemed   alone    to 

wake  ; 

0  Friend  !  long  wont  to  notice  yet  conceal, 
And  soothe  by  silence  what  words  cannot  heal, 

1  but  half  saw  that  quiet  hand  of  thine 
Place  on  my  desk  this  exquisite  design. 
Boccaccio's  Garden  and  its  fa*ry. 

The  love,  the  joyaunce,  and  the  gallantry  ! 

An  Idyll,  with  Boccaccio's  spirit  warm. 

Framed  in  the  silent  poesy  of  fonn. 

Like  Hocks  adown  a  newly-bathed  steep 

Emerging  from  a  mist :  or  like  a  stream 

Of  music  soft  that  not  dispels  the  sleep. 

But   casts  in   happier  moulds  the   slumberer's 

dream. 
Gazed  by  an  idle  eye  with  silent  might 
The  picture  stole  upon  my  inward  sight. 
A  tremulous  warmth  crept  gradual  o'er  my  chest. 
As  though  an  infant's  finger  touched  my  breast. 
And   one    by    one   (I    know    not    whence)   were 

brought 


GARDEN   OF   BOCCACCIO    191 

AH  spirits  of  power  that  most  had   stirred   my 

thought 
In  selfless  boyhood,  on  a  new  world  tost 
Of  wonder,  and  in  its  own  fancies  lost ; 
Or  charmed  my  youth,  that,  kindled  from  above, 
Loved  ere  it  loved,  and  sought  a  form  for  love ; 
Or  lent  a  lustre  to  the  earnest  scan 
Of  manhood,  musing  what  and  whence  is  man ; 
Wild  strain  of  Scalds,  that  in  the  sea-worn  caves 
Rehearsed  their  war-spell  to  the  winds  and  waves  ; 
Or  fateful  hymn  of  those  prophetic  maids, 
That  called  on  Hertha  in  deep  forest  glades ; 
Or  minstrel  lay,  that  cheered  the  baron's  feast; 
Or  rhyme  of  city  pomp,  of  monk  and  priest. 
Judge,  mayor,  and  many  a  guild  in  long  array. 
To  high-church  pacing  on  the  great  saint's  day. 
And  many  a  verse  which  to  myself  I  sang, 
That  woke  the  tear  yet  stole  away  the  pang 
Of  hopes  which  in  lamenting  I  renewed. 
And  last,  a  matron  now,  of  sober  mien. 
Yet  radiant  still  and  with  no  earthly  sheen. 
Whom  as  a  fary  child  my  childhood  wooed 
Even  in  my  dawn  of  thought— Philosophy  ; 
Though  then  unconscious  of  herself,  pardie, 
She  bore  no  other  name  than  Poesy  ; 
And,  like  a  gift  from  heaven,  in  lifeful  glee. 
That  had  but  newly  left  a  mother's  knee. 
Prattled  and   played   with   bird  and   flower,  and 

stone. 
As  if  with  elfin  playfellows  well  known. 
And  life  revealed  to  innocence  alone. 

Thanks,  gentle  artist !  now  I  can  descry 
Thy  fair  creation  with  a  mastering  eye, 


m 


I 


V-  "r 


192  SKIES    ITALIAN 

And  all  awake  !     And  now  in  fixed  gaze  stand, 
Now  wander  through  the  Eden  of  thy  hand  ; 
Praise  the  green  arches,  on  the  fountain  clear 
See  fragment  shadows  of  the  crossing  deer ; 
And  with  that  serviceable  nymph  I  stoop 
The  crystal  from  its  restless  pool  to  scoop. 
I  see  no  longer  !     I  myself  am  there, 
Sit  on  the  ground-sward,  and  the  banquet  share. 
'Tis     I,    that     sweep    that    lute's    love-echoing 

strings. 
And  gaze  upon  the  maid  who  gazing  sings ; 
Or  pause  and  listen  to  the  tinkling  bells 
From  the  high  tower,  and  think  that  there  she 

dwells. 
With  old  Boccaccio's  soul  I  stand  possessed, 
And  breathe  an  air  like  life,  that  swells  my  chest. 
The  brightness  of  the  world,  O  thou  once  free, 
And  always  fair,  rare  land  of  courtesy  ! 
O  Florence  !  with  the  Tuscan  fields  and  hills. 
And  famous  Arno,  fed  with  all  their  rills ; 
Thou  brightest  star  of  star-bright  Italy  ! 
Rich,  ornate,  i)opulous,  all  treasures  thine. 
The  golden  corn,  the  olive,  and  the  vine. 
Fair  cities,  gallant  mansions,  castles  old. 
And  forests,  where  beside  his  leafy  hold 
The  sullen  boar  hath  heard  the  distant  horn, 
And  whets  his  tusks  against  the  guarded  thorn ; 
Palladian  palace  with  its  storied  halls ; 
Fountains,    where    Love    lies   listening    to    their 

falls ; 
Gardens,  where  flings  the  bridge  its  airy  span, 
And  Nature  makes  her  happy  home  with  man ; 
Where  many  a  gorgeous  flower  is  duly  fed 
With  its  own  rill,  on  its  own  spangled  bed, 


FIESOLAN   IDYL 


193 


And  wreathes  the  marble  urn,  or  leans  its  head, 
A  mimic  mourner,  that  with  veil  withdrawn 
Weeps  liquid  gems,  the  presents  of  Ihe  dawn; 
Thine  all  delights,  and  every  muse  is  thine ; 
And  more  than  all,  the  embrace  and  intertwine 
Of  all  with  all  in  gay  and  twinkling  dance ! 
Mid  gods  of  Greece  and  warriors  of  romance, 
See  !     Boccace  sits,  unfolding  on  his  knees 
The  new-found  roll  of  old  Maeonides  ; 
But  from  his  mantle's  fold,  and  near  the  heart, 
Peers  Ovid's  Holy  Book  of  Love's  sweet  smart ! 
O  all-enjoying  and  all-blending  sage. 
Long  be  it  mine  to  con  thy  mazy  page. 
Where,  half  concealed,  the  eye  of  fancy  views 
Fauns,  nymphs,  and   winged   saints,  all   gracious 

to  thy  muse ! 
Still  in  thy  garden  let  me  watch  their  pranks, 
And  see  in  Dian's  vest  between  the  ranks 
Of  the  trim  vines,  some  maid  that  half  believes 
The  vestal  fires,  of  which  her  lover  grieves. 
With  that  sly  satyr  peeping  through  the  leaves ! 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 


FIESOLAN   IDYL 


HERE,  where    precipitate   Spring  with  one 
light  bound 
Into  hot  Summer's  lusty  arms  expires. 
And  where  go  forth  at  morn,  at  eve,  at  night, 
Soft  airs  that  want  the  lute  to  play  with  'em, 
And  softer  sighs  that  know  not  what  they  want. 
Aside  a  wall,  beneath  an  orange-tree. 
Whose  tallest  flowers  could  tell  the  lowlier  ones 

N 


^i 


194  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Of  sights  in  Fiesole  right  up  above, 
While  I  was  gazing  a  few  paces  off 
At    what   they  seemed   to  show  me  with    their 

nods, 
Their    frequent     whispers    and     their    pointmg 

shoots, 
A  gentle  maid  came  down  the  garden-steps 
And  gathered  the  pure  treasure  in  her  lap. 
I  heard  the  branches  rustle,  and  stepped  forth 
To  drive  the  ox  away,  or  mule,  or  goat, 
Such  I  believed  it  must  be.     How  could  I 
Let  beast  o'erpower  them  ?  when  hath  wind  or 

rain 
Borne  hard  upon  weak  plant  that  wanted  me. 
And  I  (however  they  might  bluster  round) 
Walked     off?       '  Twere     most     ungrateful:     for 

sweet  scents 
Are  the  swift  vehicles  of  still  sweeter  thoughts, 
And  nurse  and  pillow  the  dull  memory 
That   would    let   drop    without    them    her    best 

stores. 
They  bring  me  tales  of  youth  and  tones  of  love. 
And  'tis  and  ever  was  my  wish  and  way 
To  let  all  flowers  live  freely,  and  all  die 
(W^hene'er  their  Genius  bids  their  souls  depart) 
Among  their  kindred  in  their  native  place. 
I  never  pluck  the  rose  ;  the  violet's  head 
Hath  shaken  with  my  breath  upon  its  bank 
And  not  reproached  me  ;  the  ever-sacred  cup 
Of  the  pure  lily  hath  between  my  hands 
Felt  safe,  unsoiled,  nor  lost  one  grain  of  gold. 
I  saw  the  light  that  made  the  glossy  leaves 
More  glossy  ;  the  fair  arm,  the  fairer  cheek 
Warmed  by  the  eye  intent  on  its  pursuit ; 


FIESOLAN    IDYL 


195 


I  saw  the  foot  that,  although  half-erect 
From  its  gray  slipper,  could  not  lift  her  up 
To  what  she  wanted  :  I  held  down  a  branch 
And    gathered    her   some    blossoms ;    since   their 

hour 
Was   come,  and    bees    had   wounded   them,  and 

flies 
Of  harder  wing  were  working  their  way  through 
And  scattering  them  in  fragments  under  foot. 
So  crisp  were  some,  they  rattled  unevolved. 
Others,  ere  broken  off*,  fell  into  shells. 
Unbending,  brittle,  lucid,  white  like  snow. 
And  like  snow  not  seen  through,  by  eye  or  sun : 
Yet  every  one  her  gown  received  from  me 
Was  fairer  than  the  first.     I  thought  not  so, 
But  so  she  praised  them  to  reward  my  care. 
I  said,  "  You  find  the  largest." 

"This  indeed," 
Cried  she,  "is  large  and  sweet."     She  held  one 

forth. 
Whether  for  me  to  look  at  or  to  take 
She  knew  not,  nor  did  I ;  but  taking  it 
Would  best  have  solved  (and  this  she   felt)  her 

doubt. 
I  dared  not  touch  it ;  for  it  seemed  a  part 
Of  her  own  self;  fresh,  full,  the  most  mature 
Of  blossoms,  yet  a  blossom  ;  with  a  touch 
To    fall,  and  yet  unfallen.     She  drew  back 
The  boon  she  tendered,  and  then,  finding  not 
The  ribbon  at  her  waist  to  fix  it  in, 
Dropped  it,  as  loth  to  drop  it,  on  the  rest. 

Walter  Savage  Landor 


m 


196 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


w 


EVENING    AT    FIESOLE 

HERE    three    huge    dogs    are    ramping 
yonder 


Before  that  vilhi  with  its  tower, 
No  braver  boys,  no  father  fonder, 
Ever  prolonged  the  moonUght  hour. 

Often,  to  watch  their  sports  unseen. 
Along  the  broad  stone  bench  he  lies, 

The  oleander-stems  between 

And  citron-boughs  to  shade  his  eyes. 

The  clouds  now  whiten  far  away, 
And  villas  glimmer  thick  below, 

And  windows  catch  the  quivering  ray, 
Obscure  one  minute's  space  ago. 

Orchards  and  vine-knolls  maple-propt 
Rise  radiant  round  :   the  meads  are  dim, 

As  if  the  milky-way  had  dropt 
And  filled  Valdarno  to  the  brim. 

Unseen  beneath  us,  on  the  right. 
The  abbey  with  unfinished  front 

Of  checkered  marble,  black  and  white, 
And  on  the  left  the  Doccia's  font. 

Eastward,  two  ruined  castles  rise 
Beyond  Maiano's  mossy  mill. 

Winter  and  Time  their  enemies. 
Without  their  warder,  stately  still. 


It 


FIG-TREES 


197 


The  heaps  around  them  there  will  grow 
Higher,  as  years  sweep  by,  and  higher. 

Till  every  battlement  laid  low 

Is  seized  and  trampled  by  the  briar. 

That  line  so  lucid  is  the  weir 

Of  Rovezzano  :  but  behold 
The  graceful  tower  of  Giotto  there. 

And  Duomo's  cross  of  freshened  gold. 


We  can  not  tell,  so  far  away. 

Whether  the  city's  tongue  be  mute, 
We  only  hear  some  lover  play 

(If  sighs  be  play)  the  sighing  flute. 


Walter  Savage  Landor 


THE   FIG-TREES   OF  GHERARDESCA 

YE  brave  old  fig-trees  !  worthy  pair ! 
Beneath  whose  shade  I  often  lay 
To  breathe  awhile  a  cooler  air. 

And  shield  me  from  the  dusts  of  day. 

Strangers  have  visited  the  spot. 
Led  thither  by  my  parting  song ; 

Alas  !  the  stranger  found  you  not, 
And  curst  the  poet's  lying  tongue. 


Vanished  each  venerable  head. 

Nor  bough  nor  leaf  could  tell  them  where 
To  look  for  you,  alive  or  dead  ; 

Unheeded  was  my  distant  prayer. 


198 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


I  might  have  hoped  (if  hope  had  ever 
Been  mine)  that  time  or  storm  alone 

Your  firm  alhance  would  dissever, — 

Hath  mortal  hand  your  strength  o'erthrown  ? 

Before  an  ax  had  bitten  through 

The  bleeding  bark,  some  tender  thought, 

If  not  for  me,  at  least  for  you. 

On  younger  bosoms  might  have  wrought. 

Age  after  age  your  honeyed  fruit 

From  boys  unseen  through  foliage  fell 

On  lifted  apron  ;  now  is  mute 

The  girlish  glee  !     Old  friends,  farewell ! 

Walter  Savage  Landov 

MICHAEL    ANGELO    AT    FORTY-SEVEN 

NINE  years  !— nine  years  the  Pope  hath  bade 
me  stay 
Stone-quarrying  in  these  mountains, — kept  me 

here 
Road-making  round  Pietra,  like  a  mere 

Dull  drudge,  who,  still  reluctant,  nmst  obey. 

I  watch  the  sunset  burn  the  hours  away  ; 
Visions  immortal,  frescoed  tier  on  tier. 
Arise  before  me  !     Sculptured  forms  austere 

Leap  into  life  from  the  imagined  clay  ! 

'Twould  seem  the  Pontiff  values  but  my  brawn ; 

Fettered  am  I  within  this  mountain  lair  : 
I  who,  with  David  and  the  laughing  Faun, 

Lilied,  with  poesy,  my  Florence  fair ; 
I  who  have  dreams  of  carving  Night  and  Dawn, 

And  building  domes,  unparalleled,  in  air  ! 

Lloyd  Mifflin 


X- 


CASTELLO 


199 


TO   VERNON    LEE 

ON  Bellosguardo,  when  the  year  was  young. 
We  wandered,  seeking  for  the  daffodil 
And  dark  anemone,  whose  purples  fill 
The    peasant's    plot,    between    the    corn-shoots 

sprung. 
Over  the  gray,  low  wall  the  olive  flung 
Her  deeper  grayness ;  far  off,  hill  on  hill 
Sloped  to  the  sky,  which,  pearly-pale  and  still, 
Above  the  large  and  luminous  landscape  hung. 
A  snowy  blackthorn  flowered  beyond  my  reach  ; 
You  broke  a  branch  and  gave  it  to  me  there ; 
I  found  for  you  a  scarlet  blossom  rare. 
Thereby  ran  on  of  Art  and  Life  our  speech  ; 
And  of  the  gifts  the  gods  had  given  to  each — 
Hope  unto  you,  and  unto  me  Despair. 

Amy  Levy 


m 


CASTELLO 

THE  Triton  in  the  ilex-wood 
Is  lonely  at  Castello. 
The  snow  is  on  him  like  a  hood. 
The  fountain-reeds  are  yellow. 


But  never  Triton  sorrowed  yet 
For  weather  chill  or  mellow : 

He  mourns,  my  Dear,  that  you  forget 
The  gardens  of  Castello  ! 

A,  Mary  F.  Robinson 


w 


I 


200  SKIES    ITALIAN 


AFTER    READING   "AN    ITALIAN 
GARDEN " 

TO  him  no  more  an  inward  hate 
Shall  speak,  nor  aught  but  beauty  sing, 
Who  walks  within  this  Garden  late, 
And  hears  its  fountain  murmuring. 

A  vestige  of  some  other  day 

Once  lived,  but  dim-remembered  now. 
Goes  in  the  moon's  familiar  way 

Beneath  the  stately  ilex-bough. 

The  parterre — I  but  half  forget — 
The  Tuscan  melancholy  night — 

Too  faintly  I  regain  them,  yet 

Too  keenly  to  have  lost  them  quite. 

Was  I  the  Other  of  some  song 

That  many  a  year  hath  left  the  lips 

Of  her  who  walks  alone  along 

The  water  where  the  Triton  dips  ? 

And  she — how  her  rispetti  claim 
The  sad-bewildered  heart  of  me 

That  ever  almost  saith  her  name, 
Yet  loseth  it  continually  ! 

Slow  moving  down  her  marble  stair. 
Or  leaned  on  sculptured  balustrade, 

Her  face  is  shadowed  by  her  hair. 
Her  arms  are  buried  in  its  shade. 


THE   WHITE   PEACOCK    201 

Oh,  might  she  lift  that  face,  or  free 
Those  hidden  hands,  I  know  that  soon 

My  faint  old  faded  Italy 

Again  would  blossom  to  the  moon ! 

Arthur  Upson 

THE   WHITE    PEACOCK 

HERE  where  the  sunlight 
Floodeth  the  garden. 
Where  the  pomegranate 
Reareth  its  glory 
Of  gorgeous  blossom  ; 
Where  the  oleanders 
Dream  through  the  noontides; 
And,  like  surf  o'  the  sea 
Round  cliffs  of  basalt, 
The  thick  magnolias 
In  billowy  masses 

Front  the  sombre  green  of  the  ilexes  ; 
Here  where  the  heat  lies 
Pale  blue  in  the  hollows, 
Where  blue  are  the  shadows 
On  the  fronds  of  the  cactus, 
Where  pale  blue  the  gleaming 
Of  fir  and  cypress. 
With  the  cones  upon  them 
Amber  or  glowing 
With  virgin  gold : 
Here  where  the  honey-flower 
Makes  the  heat  fragrant. 
As  though  from  the  gardens 
Of  Gulistfin, 
Where  the  bulbul  singeth 


ir 


1 


202 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


Through  a  mist  of  roses, 

A  breath  were  borne : 

Here  where  the  dream-flowers, 

The  cream-white  poppies 

Silently  waver, 

And  where  the  Scirocco, 

Faint  in  the  hollows, 

Foldeth  his  soft  white  wings  in  the  sunlight. 

And  lieth  sleeping 

Deep  in  the  heart  of 

A  sea  of  white  violets  : 

Here,  as  the  breath,  as  the  soul  of  this  beauty, 

Moveth  in  silence,  and  dreamlike,  and  slowly, 

White  as  a  snow-drift  in  mountain  valleys 

When  softly  upon  it  the  gold  light  lingers : 

White  as  the  foam  o'  the  sea  that  is  driven 

O'er  billows  of  azure  agleam  with  sun-yellow  : 

Cream-white  and  soft  as  the  breasts  of  a  girl, 

Moves  the  White  Peacock,  as  though  through  the 

noontide 
A  dream  of  the  moonlight  were  real  for  a  moment. 
Dim  on  the  beautiful  fan  that  he  spreadeth, 
Foldeth  and  spreadeth  abroad  in  the  sunlight, 
Dim  on  the  cream-white  are  blue  adumbrations, 
Shadows  so  pale  in  their  delicate  blueness 
That  visions  they  seem  as  of  vanishing  violets, 
The  fragrant  white  violets  veined  with  azure. 
Pale,   pale  as  the  breath   of  blue  smoke  in  far 

woodlands. 
Here,  as  the  breath,  as  the  soul  of  this  beauty, 
White  as  a  cloud  through  the  heats  of  the  noon- 
tide 
Moves  the  White  Peacock. 

Williain  Sharp 


V^ 


AT   VALLOMBROSA       203 


AT   VALLOMBROSA 

"  Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strew  the  brooks 

In  Vallombrosa,  where  Etrurian  shades 

High  over-arched  eir.lwwer.  " 

**  Paradise  Lost 

"  ^  7ALLOMBROSA— I  longed  in  thy  shadiest 

V  wood 
To  slumber,  reclined  on  the  moss-covered  floor!" 
Fond  wish  that  was  granted  at  last,  and  the  Flood 
That  lulled  me  asleep  bids  me  listen  once  more. 
Its  murmur  how  soft !  as  it  falls  down  the  steepi 
Near  that  Cell— yon  sequestered  Retreat  high  in 

air — 
Where  our  Milton  was  wont  lonely  vigils  to  keep 
For  converse  with  God,  sought  through  study  and 

prayer. 


The  Monks  still  repeat  the  tradition  with  pride. 
And  its  truth  who  shall  doubt?  for  his  Spirit  is 

here ; 
In  the  cloud-piercing  rocks  doth   her  grandeur 

abide, 
In  the    pines    pointing   heavenward    her   beauty 

austere ; 
In  the  flower-besprent  meadows  his  genius  we 

trace 
Turned    to   humbler   delights,    in    which    youth 

might  confide, 
That  would  yield  him  fit  help  while  prefiguring 

that  Place 
Where,  if  Sin  had  not  entered.  Love  never  had  died. 


r 


204 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


When  with  life  lengthened  out  came  a  desolate 

time. 
And  darkness  and    danger  had    compassed    him 

round, 
With  a  thought  he  would  flee  to  these  haunts  of 

his  prime 
And  here  once  again  a  kind  shelter  he  found. 
And  let  me  believe  that  when  nightly  the  Muse 
Did  waft  him  to  Sion,  the  glorified  hill, 
Here   also,  on  some  favoured  height,   he  would 

choose 
To  wander,  and  drink  inspiration  at  will. 

Vallombrosa !  of  thee  I  first  heard  in  the  page 
Of  that  holiest  of  Bards,  and  the  name  for  my 

mind 
Had  a  musical  charm  which  the  winter  of  age 
And    the    changes    it    brings    had    no   power   to 

unbind. 
And  now,  ye  Miltonian  shades  !  under  you 
I  repose,  nor  am  forced  from  sweet  fancy  to  part, 
While  your  leaves  I  behold  and  the  brooks  they 

will  strew. 
And  the  realized  vision  is  clasped  to  my  heart. 

Even  so,  and  unblamed,  we  rejoice  as  we  may 
In  Forms  that  must  perish,  frail  objects  of  sense ; 
Unblamed — if  the  Soul  be  intent  on  the  day 
When  the  Being  of  Beings  shall  summon  her  hence. 
For  he  and  he  only  with  wisdom  is  blest 
Who,  gathering  true  pleasures  wherever  they  grow. 
Looks  up  in  all  places,  for  joy  or  for  rest. 
To  the  fountain  whence  Time  and  Eternity  flow. 

William  Wordsfvorth 


LASTRA    A   SIGNA 


205 


LASTRA   A   SIGNA 

SHE  is  old  I  she  is  old,  our  Lastra ! 
Old  with  thousands  of  years  ; 
Yet  her  bold,  brave  gates  stand  up  to-day 

As  in  years  agone,  when  her  Tuscan  spears 
From  the  sunny  hill-top  drove  at  bay 
Foe  after  foe,  in  reddening  lines, 
Over  the  crest  of  the  Apennines. 


She  is  old  I  she  is  old,  our  Lastra  I 

Her  noble  walls  are  rent ; 
Yet  they  stand  to-day  on  the  great  highway. 

With  the  ruined  battlement. 
And  the  beacon  tower,  dark  and  gray : 
She  sees,  like  a  dream,  the  Arno  flow 
By  beautiful  Florence,  far  below. 

She  is  old  !  she  is  old,  our  Lastra  ! 

Yet  Ferruchio  held  her  dear ; 
He  gave  her  his  heart,  his  sword,  his  life. 

Yet  she  wasted  never  a  tear. 
With  head  unbowed  in  the  bitter  strife, 
As  on,  through  her  gateway,  the  hosts  of  France 
Passed  at  the  traitor  Baldini's  glance. 

They  stormed  at  her  walls,  our  Lastra  ! 

They  pierced  her  with  fire  and  steel ; 
Orange  came  down  from  the  hills  of  Spain, — " 

He  trampled  her  turf  with  his  iron  heel. 
Pillaged,  and  slew  to  her  hurt  and  pain. 
Till  she  fought  no  more  ;  her  banners  were  rent, 
And  the  warder  gone  from  her  battlement. 


'  ! 


I 

I 


if 


206 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


But  they  left  her  the  gray  old  mountains^ 
And  the  green  of  her  olive-fields  ; 

The  blessed  cross  and  the  holy  shrine, 
And  her  marvellous  carven  shields, 

Painted  in  colours  rare  and  fine, 

On  the  beautiful  gateway,  her  crown  and  pride, 

Dear  to  the  hearts,  where  Amalfi  died. 

On  the  stones  of  her  mighty  watch-tower 

Women  spin  in  the  sun  ; 
Pilgrims  tread  on  her  broad  highway  ; 

Her  days  of  battle  are  done. 
Soft  breezes  blow  o'er  the  scented  hay. 
And  scarlet  poppies  bloom  large  and  sweet, 
By  the  blowing  barley  and  fields  of  wheat. 

She  is  older,  our  pride,  our  lustra, 
Than  the  tombs  of  Etruscan  kings  ; 

She  is  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  sages, — 
For  her  living  she  smiles  and  sings, 

As  she  looks  to  the  coming  ages ; 

And  her  dead,  they  whisper,  "  Waste  no  tear, 

W^e  only  sleep, — we  are  waiting  here  !  " 

Sarah  D.  Clarke 


ETRUSCAN    TOMBS 


TO  think  the  face  we  love  shall  ever  die. 
And  be  the  indifferent  earth,  and  know 
us  not ! 
To  think  that  one  of  us  shall  live  to  cry 
On  one  long  buried  in  a  distant  spot  I 


ETRUSCAN   TOMBS       207 

O  wise  Etruscans,  faded  in  the  night 

Yourselves,    with    scarce   a   rose-leaf  on   your 
trace, 
You  kept  the  ashes  of  the  dead  in  sight, 

And  shaped  the  vase  to  seem  the  loved  one's 
face. 

But,  O  my  Love,  my  life  is  such  an  urn 

That    tender    memories    mould   with    constant 
touch. 

Until  the  dust  and  earth  of  it  they  turn 
To  your  dear  image  that  I  love  so  much  : 

A  sacred  urn,  filled  with  the  sacred  past. 
That  shall  recall  you  while  the  clay  shall  last. 


P 


i 


II 

Beneath  the  branches  of  the  olive-yard 

Are  roots  where  cyclamen  and  violet  grow ; 

Beneath  the  roots  the  earth  is  deep  and  hard. 
And  there  a  king  was  buried  long  ago. 

The  peasants  digging  deeply  in  the  mould 
Cast  up  the  autumn  soil  about  the  place. 

And  saw  a  gleam  of  unexpected  gold. 
And  underneath  the  earth  a  living  face. 

With  sleeping  lids  and  rosy  lips  he  lay 

Among  the  wreathes  and  gems  that  mark  the 
king 

One  moment ;  then  a  little  dust  and  clay 
Fell  shrivelled  over  wreath  and  urn  and  ring. 

A  carven  slab  recalls  his  name  and  deeds, 
Writ  in  a  language  no  man  living  reads. 


I 


^v 


208 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


III 


Here  lies  the  tablet  graven  in  the  past, 

Clear-charactered  and  firm  and  fresh  of  line. 

See,  not  a  word  is  gone  ;  and  yet  how  fast 
The  secret  no  man  living  may  divine ! 

What  did  he  choose  for  witness  in  the  grave  ? 

A  record  of  his  glory  on  the  earth  ? 
The  wail  of  friends  ?     The  Picans  of  the  brave  ? 

The  sacred  promise  of  the  second  birth  ! 

The  tombs  of  ancient  Greeks  in  Sicily 

Are  sown  with  slender  discs  of  graven  gold 

Filled  with  the  praise  of  Death :  "  Thrice  happy 
he 
Wrapt  in  the  milk-soft  sleep  of  dreams  untold  ! " 

They  sleep  their  patient  sleep  in  altered  lands, 
The  golden  promise  in  their  Heshless  hands. 

A.  Man/  F.  Robinson 

AN    ETRUSCAN    RING 

**Sive  trans  altas  gradietur  Alpes, 
Gallicum  Rhenum  horribile  sequor  uUimosque  Britannos." 

I 

WHERE,  girt  with  orchard  and  with  olive- 
yard. 
The  white  hill-fortress  brooded  on  the  hill, 
Day  after  day  an  ancient  goldsmith's  skill 
Guided  the  copper  graver,  tempered  hard 
By  some  lost  secret,  while  he  shaped  the  sard 
Slowly  to  beauty,  and  his  tiny  drill. 
Edged  with  corundum,  ground  its  way,  until 
The  gem  lay  perfect  for  the  ring  to  guard. 


TUSCAN  LACHRYMATORY  209 

Then  seeing  the  stone  complete  to  his  desire. 

With  mystic  imagery  carven  thus, 

And  dark  Egyptian  symbols  fabulous, 

He  drew  through  it  the  delicate  golden  wire. 

And  bent  the  fastening ;  and  the  Etrurian  sun 

Sank  over  Ilva,  and  the  work  was  done. 


II 


What  dark-haired  daughter  of  a  Lucumo 
Bore  on  her  slim  white  finger  to  the  grave 
This  the  first  gift  her  Tyrrhene  lover  gave 
Those  five-and-twenty  centuries  ago .'' 
What  shadowy  dreams  might  haunt  it,  lying  low 
So  long,  while  kings  and  armies,  wave  on  wave. 
Above  the  rock-tomb's  buried  architrave 
Went  million-footed  trampling  to  and  fro  .'* 

Who  knows  ?  but  well  it  is  so  frail  a  thing, 
Unharmed  by  conquering  Time's  supremacy. 
Still  should  be  fair,  though  scarce  less  old  than 

Rome. 
Now  once  again,  at  rest  from  wandering. 
Across  the  high  Alps  and  the  dreadful  sea. 
In  utmost  England  let  it  find  a  home. 

J.  W.  Mackail 


A   TUSCAN    LACHRYMATORY 

THY  sweet  brow  low  above  thy  lover  bends- 
For  he  is  dead — thou  loveliest  of  all  maids 
That  lived  and  loved  in  glad  Etrurian  glades 
Where  Vallombrosa  now  her  vale  extends. 


\ 


/ 


210  SKIES   ITALIAN 

To  thee  no  comfort  from  the  sky  descends ; 

Thy    fingers,   ringed    with    jasper    and    with 

jades, 
Clasp  this  small  vase  of  sorrow.     In  the  shades 
Cold  lies  thy  love,  and  so  for  thee  all  ends. 
Thou  weep* St,   and   dost    endure    such   grief  as 

sears 
The  soul.     No  solace  for  thy  heart  in  years 

To  come.  .  .  .  Dead  Tuscan  by  the  Umbrian 

sea ! 
Thou  who  art  dust  this  many  a  century, 
What  lover  shall  I  leave  to  weep  for  me— 
What  amphora   wan,   filled    with    what   woman's 

tears } 

Lloyd  Mifflin 


CAMPIELLO   BARBRRO 


TO-DAY  I  came 
To  a  place  I  know ; 
The  echoes  still 
Repeat  at  will 
My  foreign  name, 
Learned  long  ago. 

A  little  court 

Where  acacias  grow ; 
Against  the  sky 
Grey  roofs  piled  high, 
Some  steep,  some  short ; 

And  the  sea  below. 


I 


PISA  211 

For  the  sea  is  there 

In  the  streets,  you  know. 
The  sea-weed  falls 
From  the  basement  walls 
In  the  little  square 

Called  Barbero. 


'Twas  there  I  came 

As  the  sun  went  low. 
A  girl  passed  by 
Singing  loud  and  high — 
'Tis — O  God  ! — the  same  ; 

I  am  altered  so. 

A,  Mary  F.  Robinson 


PISA 

ON  the  Lung'  Arno,  in  each  stately  street. 
The  silence  is  a  hunger  and  craves  food 
Like  Ugolino  cowering  o'er  his  brood. 

Sad  Pisa  !  in  thy  garments  obsolete 

Still  grand,  the  sceptre  fallen  at  thy  feet, 
An  impuissant  queen  of  solitude. 
Thine  inconsolable  gaze  speaks  widowhood 

Fixed  on  the  river,  voiceless  and  deplete. 

A  trance  more  lovely — lo !  not  many  rods 

From  the  shrunk  Arno,  a  more  slumbrous  air, 
A  dream  of  heaven  in  marble  rich  and  rare  ! 

Oppressed  with  sleep  the  Campanile  nods ; 
But  in  the  Campo  Santo's  hush  of  breath, 
Orcagna's  pathos  paints,  not  Sleep  but  Death  ! 

William  Gibson 


212  SKIES   ITALIAN 


THE   CAMPO   SANTO   AT   PISA 


THERE  needs  not  choral  song,  nor  organ's 
pealing : — 
This  mighty  cloister  of  itself  inspires 
Thoughts  breathed  like  hymns   from   spiritual 
choirs ; 
While    shades    and    lights,    in     soft    succession 

stealing, 
Along  it  creep,  now  veiling,  now  revealing 

Strange    forms,     here     traced    by    painting's 

earliest  sires, — 
Angels  with  palms  ;  and  purgatorial  fires ; 
And  saints  caught  up,    and  demons  round  them 

reeling. 
Love,  long  remembering  those  she  could  not  save, 
Here  hung  the  cradle  of  Italian  Art : 

Faith  rocked  it :    like   a   hermit  child  went 

forth 
From    hence   that  power   which    beautified 

the  earth. 
She   perished  when  the  world  had   lured   her 
heart 
From  her  true  friends.  Religion  and  the  Grave. 

II 

Lament  not  thou  :  the  cold  winds,  as  they  pass 
Through  the  ribbed  fretwork  with  low  sigh  or 

moan. 
Lament  enough  :  let  them  lament  alone, 

Counting  the  sear  leaves  of  the  innumerous  grass 


EVENING 


213 


With  thin,  soft  sound  like  one  prolonged  —alas ! 
Spread  thou  thy  hands  on  sun-touched  vase,  or 

stone 
That  yet  retains  the  warmth  of  sunshine  gone, 
And  drink  warm  solace  from  the  ponderous  mass. 
Gaze  not  around  thee.     Monumental  marbles, 

Time-clouded  frescos,  mouldering  year  by  year. 

Dim     cells    in    which    all     day    the     night-bird 

warbles, — 

These    things    are    sorrowful    elsewhere,    not 

here : 

A    mightier    Power    than    Art's    hath    here    her 

shrine  : 
Stranger  !  thou  tread'st  the  soil  of  Palestine  ! 

Auhrei/  de  Fere 

EVENING  :    PONTE   A    MARE,   PISA 


THE  sun  is  set ;  the  swallows  are  asleep  ; 
The  bats  are  flitting  fast  in  the  gray  air ; 
The  slow  soft  toads  out  of  damp  corners  creep. 

And  evening's  breath,  wandering  here  and  there 
Over  the  quivering  surface  of  the  stream, 
Wakes  not  one  ripple  from  its  summer  dream. 

n 

There  is  no  dew  on  the  dry  grass  to-night. 
Nor  damp  within  the  shadow  of  the  trees  ; 

The  wind  is  intermitting,  dry,  and  light ; 
And  in  the  inconstant  motion  of  the  breeze 

The  dust  and  straws  are  driven  up  and  down. 

And  whirled  about  the  pavement  of  the  town. 


214 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


III 


Within  the  surface  of  the  fleeting  river 
The  wrinkled  image  of  the  city  lay. 

Immovably  quiet,  and  for  ever 

It  trembles,  but  it  never  fades  away  ; 

Go  to  the  .  .   . 

You,  being  changed,  will  find  it  then  as  now 


IV 


The  chasm  in  which  the  sun  has  sunk  is  shut 
By  darkest  barriers  of  cinereous  cloud. 

Like  mountain  over  mountain  huddled — but 
Growing  and  moving  upwards  in  a  crowd. 

And  over  it  a  space  of  watery  blue. 

Which  the  keen  evening  star  is  shining  through. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


THE   BOAT   ON   THE   SERCHIO 

OUR  boat  is  asleep  on  Serchio's  stream, 
Its  sails  are  folded  like  thoughts  in  a  dream, 
The  helm  sways  idly,  hither  and  thither ; 

Dominic,  the  boatman,  has  brought  the  mast, 
And  the  oars  and  the  sails ;  but  'tis  sleeping 
fast. 
Like  a  beast,  unconscious  of  its  tether. 

The  stars  burnt  out  in  the  pale  blue  air. 
And  the  thin  white  moon  lay  withering  there. 
To  tower,  and  cavern,  and  rift  and  tree. 
The  owl  and  the  bat  fled  drowsily. 


BOAT   ON   THE   SERCHIO    215 

Day  had  kindled  the  dewy  woods, 

And  the  rock  above  and  the  stream  below. 

And  the  vapours  in  their  multitudes. 

And  Apennine's  shroud  of  summer  snow, 

And  clothed  with  light  of  aery  gold 

The  mists  in  their  eastern  caves  uproUed. 

Day  had  awakened  all  things  that  be, 
The  lark  and  the  thrush  and  the  swallow  free, 
And    the    milkmaid's    song    and    the    mower's 

scythe, 
And  the  matin-bell  and  the  mountain  bee : 
Fire-flies  were  quenched  on  the  dewy  corn. 
Glow-worms  went  out  on  the  river's  brim. 
Like  lamps  which  a  student  forgets  to  trim  : 
The  beetle  forgot  to  wind  his  horn. 

The  crickets  were  still  in  the  meadow  and  hill : 
Like  a  flock  of  rooks  at  a  farmer's  gun 
Night's  dreams  and  terrors,  every  one. 
Fled  from  the  brains  which  are  their  prey 
From  the  lamp's  death  to  the  morning  ray. 

All  rose  to  do  the  task  He  set  to  each. 

Who  shaped  us  to  his  ends  and  not  our  own ; 
The  million  rose  to  learn,  and  one  to  teach 

What  none  yet  ever  knew  or  can  be  known. 

And  many  rose 

Whose  woe  was  such  that  fear  became  desire  ;— 
Melchior  and  Lionel  were  not  among  those  ; 
They  from  the  throng  of  men  had  stepped  aside. 
And  made  their  home  under  the  green  hillside. 
It  was  that  hill,  whose  intervening  brow 

Screens  Lucca  from  the  Pisan's  envious  eye, 
Which  the  circumfluous  plain  waving  below, 


\ 


'III 


M 

I  ! 


( 


216 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


Like  a  wide  lake  of  green  fertility, 
With  streams  and  fields  and  marshes  bare, 

Divided  from  the  far  Apennines — which  lie 
Islanded  in  the  immeasurable  air. 

"  What  think  you,  as  she  lies  in  her  green  cove, 

Our  little  sleeping  boat  is  dreaming  of  ?  " 

"  If  morning  dreams  are  true,  why  I  should  guess 

That  she  was  dreaming  of  our  idleness. 

And  of  the  miles  of  watery  way 

We  should  have  led  her  by  this  time  of  day.  "— 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Lionel, 

"  Give  care  to  the  winds,  they  can  bear  it  well 

About  yon  poplar  tops  ;  and  see  I 

The  white  clouds  are  driving  merrily. 

And  the  stars  we  miss  this  morn  will  light 

More  willingly  our  return  to-night. — 

How  it  whistles,  Dominic's  long  black  hair  ! 

List  my  dear  fellow  ;  the  breeze  blows  fair  : 

Hear  how  it  sings  into  the  air." 

"  Of  us  and  of  our  lazy  motions," 

Impatiently  said  Melchior, 
"  If  I  can  guess  a  boat's  emotions  ; 

And  how  we  ought,  two  hours  before, 
To  have  been  the  devil  knows  where." 
And  then  in  such  transalpine  Tuscan 
As  would  have  killed  a  Delia  Cruscan, 
•  •  •  .  .  .  . 

So,  Lionel  according  to  his  art 

Weaving  his  idle  words,  Melchior  said  : 
"  She  dreams  that  we  are  not  yet  out  of  bed  ; 
We'll  put  a  soul  into  her,  and  a  heart 
Which  like  a  dove  chased  by  a  dove  shall  beat." 


BOAT   ON   THE   SERCHIO    217 

"  Ay,  heave  the  ballast  overboard. 
And  stow  the  eatables  in  the  aft  locker." 
"  Would  not  this  keg  be  best  a  little  lowered  }  " 
"No,  now  all's  right."     "Those  bottles  of  warm 

tea — 
(Give  me  some  straw) — must  be  stowed  tenderly  : 
Such  as  we  used,  in  summer  after  six. 
To  cram  in  great-coat  pockets,  and  to  mix 
Hard  eggs  and  radishes  and  rolls  at  Eton, 
And,   couched    on    stolen    hay  in    those    green 

harbours 
Farmers  called  gaps,  and   we  schoolboys  called 

arbours. 
Would  feast  till  eight." 
,  •  •  •  •  •  • 

With  a  bottle  in  one  hand. 
As  if  his  very  soul  were  at  a  stand, 
Lionel     stood — when     Melchior     brought     him 

steady : — 
"  Sit  at  the  helm — fasten  this  sheet — all  ready  !  " 

The  chain  is  loosed,  the  sails  are  spread. 

The  living  breath  is  fresh  behind, 
As  with  dews  and  sunrise  fed. 

Comes  the  laughing  morning  wind  ; — 
The  sails  are  full,  the  boat  makes  head 
Against  the  Serchio's  torrent  fierce. 
Then  flags  with  intermitting  course. 

And  hangs  upon  the  wave,  and  stems 

The  tempest  of  the  .  .  . 
Which  fervid  from  its  mountain  source 

Shallow,  smooth  and  strong  doth  come, — 

Swift  as  fire,  tempestuously 

It  sweeps  into  the  affrighted  sea ; 


218 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


i;i 


i 


In  morning's  smile  its  eddies  coil. 
Its  billows  sparkle,  toss  and  boil. 
Torturing  all  its  quiet  light 
Into  columns  fierce  and  bright. 

The  Serchio,  twisting  forth 
Between  the  marble  barriers  which  it  clove 

At  Ripafratta,  leads  through  the  dread  chasm 
The  wave  that  died  the  death  which  lovers  love, 

Living  in  what  it  sought ;  as  if  this  spasm 
Had  not  yet  past,  the  toppling  mountains  cling. 

But  the  clear  stream  in  full  enthusiasm 
Pours  itself  on  the  plain,  then  wandering 

Down  one  clear  path  of  effluence  crystalline, 
Sends  its  superfluous  waves,  that  they  may  fling 

At  Arno's  feet  tribute  of  corn  and  wine. 
Then,  through  the  pestilential  deserts  wild 

Of  tangled  marsh  and  woods  of  stunted  pine. 
It  rushes  to  the  ocean. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


SIENA 
I 

THE    DAISIES 

ONCE  I  came  to  Siena, 
Travelling  waywardly  ; 
I  sought  not  church  nor  palace  ; 

I  did  not  care  to  see. 
In  the  little  park  at  Siena, 
Her  famous  ways  untrod, 
I  laid  me  down  in  the  springtime 
Upon  the  daisied  sod. 


SIENA 


219 


New,  but  not  unfamiliar, 

Of  my  boyhood  seemed  the  scene — 
The  hillsides  of  Judaea, 

And  Turner's  pines  between  ; 
And  tenderly  the  rugged. 

Volcanic  rock-lands  bare. 
Warm  in  the  April  weather. 

Slept  in  the  melting  air. 
Twas  April  in  the  valleys ; 

'Twas  April  in  the  sky  ; 
And  from  the  tufted  locusts 

The  sweet  scent  wandered  by  ; 
But  strange  to  me  the  sunshine. 

And  strange  the  growing  grass  ; 
To  the  branch  that  cannot  blossom 

How  cold  doth  April  pass ! 
As  lovers,  when  love  is  over. 

Remembering  seem  men  dead, 
Down  on  the  warm  bright  daisies, 

Earth's  lover,  I  laid  my  head ; 
And  whence  or  why  I  know  not. 

At  the  touch  my  eyes  were  dim. 
And  I  knew  that  these  were  the  daisies 

That  Keats  felt  grow  o'er  him. 


f  ti 


II 


CHRIST    SCOURGED 


I  saw  in  Siena  pictures. 

Wandering  wearily  ; 
I  sought  not  the  names  of  the  masters 

Nor  the  works  men  care  to  see ; 


220 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


SIENA 


221 


But  once  in  a  low-ceiled  passage 

I  came  on  a  place  of  gloom, 
Lit  here  and  there  with  halos 

Like  saints  within  the  room. 
The  pure,  serene,  mild  colours 

The  early  artists  used 
Had  made  my  heart  grow  softer. 

And  still  on  peace  I  mused. 
Sudden  I  saw  the  Sufferer, 

And  my  frame  was  clenched  with  pain  ; 
Perchance  no  throe  so  noble 

V^isits  my  soul  again. 
Mine  were  the  stripes  of  the  scourging  ; 

On  my  thorn-pierced  brow  blood  ran  ; 
In  my  breast  the  deep  compassion 

Breaking  the  heart  for  man. 
I  drooped  with  heavy  eyelids, 

Till  evil  should  have  its  will  ; 
On  my  lips  was  silence  gathered  ; 

My  waiting  soul  stood  still. 
I  gazed,  nor  knew  I  was  gazing  ; 

I  trembled,  and  woke  to  know 
Him  whom  they  worship  in  heaven 

Still  walking  on  earth  below. 
Once  have  I  borne  his  sorrows 

Beneath  the  flail  of  fate  ! 
Once,  in  the  woe  of  his  passion, 

I  felt  the  soul  grow  great ! 
I  turned  from  mv  dead  Leader  ; 

I  passed  the  silent  door  ; 
The  gray-walled  street  received  me ; 
On  peace  I  mused  no  more. 


in 


THE    RESURRECTION 


After  days  of  waiting. 

Rambling  still  elsewhere, 
I  took  the  narrow  causeway, 

CHmbed  the  broad  stone  stair ; 
Round  the  angle  turning 

With  uplifted  gaze 
In  the  high  piazza — 

O,  the  wasted  days  ! 
There  the  great  cathedral 

Came  upon  my  eyes  ; 
Nevermore  may  marvel 

Bring  to  me  surprise  ! 
In  the  light  of  heaven 

Builded,  heaven's  delight. 
Never  sculptured  beauty 

Hallowed  so  my  sight  I 
On  the  silent  curbstone 

Long  I  sat,  and  gazed. 
With  the  sainted  vision 

Ever  more  amazed ; 
Rose,  and  past  the  curtain 

Trod  the  pictured  floor, 
Read  Siena's  story, 

Saw  her  glory's  store. 
In  the  high  piazza 

Once  again  I  turned  ; 
Clear  in  heaven's  sunlight 

Prophet  and  angel  burned. 


P 


222 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


I 


1 


Still,  whene'er  that  vision 

Comes  upon  my  eyes, 
I  seem  to  see  triumphant 

The  Resurrection  rise. 

George  Edward  Woodberry 

Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Messrs  Macmillan] 

JULY   IN   SIENA 

FOR  July,  in  Siena,  by  the  willow-tree, 
I  give  you  barrels  of  white  Tuscan  wine 
In  ice  far  down  your  cellars  stored  supine ; 
And  morn  and  eve  to  eat  in  company 
Of  those  vast  jellies  dear  to  you  and  me  ; 

Of  partridges  and  youngling  pheasants  sweet, 
Boiled  capons,  sovereign  kids :  and  let  their  treat 
Be  veal  and  garlic,  with  whom  these  agree. 
Let  time  slip  by,  till  by  and  by,  all  day ; 

And  never  swelter  through  the  heat  at  all. 
But  move  at  ease  at  home,  sound,  cool,  and  gay  ; 

And  wear  sweet-coloured  robes  that  lightly  fall ; 
And  keep  your  tables  set  in  fresh  array. 
Not  coaxing  spleen  to  be  your  seneschal. 
Folgore  da  San  Gemignano, 

tr.  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetii 

PIA    DEI    TOLOMEI    TO    LOVE   AND 

DEATH 

(1295) 

THE  distant  hills  are  blue  as  lips  of  death  ; 
Between  myself  and  them  the  hot  swamps 
steam 
In  fetid  curls,  which,  in  the  twilight,  seem 
Like  gathering  phantoms  waiting  for  my  breath  ; 


ODE   TO    WEST    WIND     223 

While  in  the  August  heat  with  chattering  teeth 
I  sit,  and  icy  limbs,  and  let  the  stream 
Of  recollection  flow  in  a  dull  dream  ; 

Or  weave,  with   marish  blooms,  my  own  death- 
wreath. 

O  Love  that  hast  undone  me,  and  through  whom 
I  waste  in  this  Maremma  :  King  of  Sighs, 
Behold  thy  handmaid  in  her  heavy  doom  ! 

Send  me  thy  brother  Death  who  so  oft  flies 
Across  these  marshes  in  the  semi-gloom, 
To  bear  me  to  thy  amber-tinted  skies. 

Eusene  Lee-Haniilton 


ODE   TO   THE   WEST    WIND 

{This  poem  was  conceived  and  chiejiy  written  in 
a  wood  which  skirts  the  A  mo,  near  Florence) 


o 


WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's 
being. 
Thou,   from   whose   unseen   presence    the    leaves 

dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing. 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red. 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :  O  thou. 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low. 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 


224  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill : 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere  ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver  ;  hear,  O,  hear  ! 


II 

Thou    on    whose    stream,    mid    the    steep    sky's 

commotion, 
Loose   clouds    like    earth's   decaying    leaves   are 

shed. 
Shook   from  the   tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and 

ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning  :  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  M»nad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height. 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain  and  fire  and  hail  will  burst :  O,  hear ! 

Ill 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay. 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 


ODE   TO   WEST   WIND     225 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay. 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  !  thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear. 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves :  O  hear ! 


IV 


If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee ; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable  !  if  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven. 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skyey  speed 


Scarce    seemed 
striven 


a    vision,    I    would    ne'er    have 


it 


As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
O,  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life ;  I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee ;  tameless  and  swift  and  proud. 


226 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


IV 


I 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  . 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit !  be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth  ; 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  inextinguishable  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankmd  I 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !     O  wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ? 

Percif  Bijsshe  Shellci/ 


UMBRIA 


.1 


A. 


UMBRIA 


UMBRIA 


DEEP  Italian  day  with  a  wide-washed  splen- 
dour fills 
Umbria  green  with  valleys,  blue  with  a  hundred 

hills. 
Dim  in  the  south  Soracte,  a  far  rock  faint  as  a 

cloud 
Rumours    Rome,  that  of  old    spoke   over  earth, 

"  Thou  art  mine  ! " 

Mountain  shouldering  mountain  circles  us  forest- 
browed 

Heaped  upon  each  horizon  in  fair  uneven  line  ; 

And  white  as  on  builded  altars  tipped  with  a  ves- 
tal flame 

City  on  city  afar  from  the  thrones  of  the  mountains 

shine, 
Kindling   for  us    that  name   them,   many  a   me- 

moried  fame. 
Out  of  the  murmuring  ages,  flushing  the  heart  like 

wine. 
Pilgrim-desired  Assisi  is  there  ;  Spoleto  proud 
With  Rome's  imperial  arches,  with  hanging  woods 

divine ; 
Monte  Falco  hovers  above  the  hazy  vale 
Of  sweet  Clitumnus  loitering  under  iK)plars  pale  ; 
O'er  Foligno,  Trevi  clings  upon  Apennine. 

229 


1 1 


230  SKIES    ITALIAN 

And  over  this  Umbrian  earth— from  where  with 

bright  snow  spread 
Towers   abrupt   Lernessa,   huge,  like    a  dragon's 

chine, 
To  western  Ammiata's  mist-apparelled  head, 
Ammiata  that  sailors  watch  on  wide  Tyrrhenian 

waves — 
Lie  in  the  jealous  gloom  of  cold  and  secret  shrine 
Or  Gorgon-sculptured  chamber  hewn  in  old  rock 

caves, 
Hiding  their  dreams  from  the  light,  the  austere 

Etruscan  dead. 
O  lone  forests  of  oak  and  little  cyclamens  red 
Flowering  under  shadowy  silent  boughs  benign  ! 
Streams  that  wander  beneath   us  over  a   pebbly 

bed! 
Hedges  of  dewv  hawthorn  and  wild  woodbine  ! 
Now  as  the  eastern  ranges  flush  and  the  high  air 

chills 
Blurring  meadowy  vale,  blackening  heaths  of  pine. 
Now  as  in  distant  Todi,  loftily  towered— a  sign 
To  wearying  travellers — lights  o'er  hollow  Tiber 

gleam. 
Now  our  voices  are  stilled  and  our  eyes  are  given 

to  a  dream. 
As  Night,  upbringing  o'er  us   the  ancient  stars 

anew. 
Stars  that  triumphing  Caesar  and  tender  Francis 

knew. 
With  fancied  voices  mild,  august,  immortal,  fills 
Umbria  dim  with  valleys,  dark   with   a  hundred 

hills. 

Laurence  Hitii/on 


PER   GL'   OCCHI  231 

PER   GL'    OCCHI    ALMENO   NON   V'fc 

CLAUSURA 

PERUGIA  holds  a  picture  wrought  by  one 
Whose  cunning  hand,  rich  heart,  and  master 

eyes 
Have  drawn  their  mellow  forces  from  the  sun 

That  ripens  all  things  'neath  Etruscan  skies  ; 
A  convent  wall  it  is  that  tells  his  tale. 

Crag-built,  breast-high  ;  a  grey  nun  leans  on  it, 
Ga/ing  across  a  sweet  home-teeming  vale ; 
And  underneath  for  keynote  has  he  writ— 

Per  <rr  Ocelli  ahneno  non  ve  Claiisnra. 

We  gaze  with  her,  but  know  not  whence  we  gaze- 
Some  terraced  perch  perchance  of  Apennine— 

For  o'er  his  scene  he  spreads  a  studious  haze 
That  leaves  mysterious  what  he  found  divine  ; 

Nor  may  we  raise  the  lappet  of  her  veil 

To  note  if  the  clipped  locks  be  gold  or  grey  ; 

Nor  ask  whose  spirit  'tis  that  thus  breaks  pale 
In  one  sad  whisper  to  the  summer  day— 

Per  fl  Occhi  ahneno  non  ve  ClaYisura. 

Her  eyes  are  messengers  that  go  and  come 
To  gild  her  soul  with  guesses ;  to  make  fair 

The  chambers  of  her  mind,  grown  void  and  numb 
With    painless    penance   and   with   prayerless 

prayer : 
So  may  some  manacled  forgotten  wretch 

Watch  o'er  his  head  chance  swallow-shadows  flit, 
Blurring  the  shafts  of  light  that  faintly  stretch 
Athwart  the  roof  of  his  dark  dungeon  pit— 
Per  frt  Occhi  ahneno  non  ve  Claiisura. 


232 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


Life  in  those  glancing  shapes  doth  visit  him. 

Life  of  the  fields,  the  air,  the  sunny  sky. 
Warm  eaves,  the  clay-built  nest,  the  homestead 
trim. 
Byres,  and  the  dovecote's  burnished  colony ; 
No  longer  rots  he  in  his  oubliette. 

But  basks  at  large  in  sunshine,  painless,  free  ; 
One  glimpse ;  it  flashed,  and  died,  but  leaves  him 
yet 
A  horde  of  happy  dreams  for  progeny — 

Per  gl'  Occhi  almeno  non  vc  Clalisura. 

She  straineth  still  her  gaze  across  the  plain 

That  nought  but  a  replete  confusion  seems 
Of  meads  and  tufted  trees  and  sheeted  grain. 

Now  swathed  in   shade,    now    basking  in  the 
beams. 
So  long,  so  motionless,  she  scanneth  there 

All  that  divining  love  hath  made  her  own. 
That  timid  garden  mice  peep  forth  and  stare. 

And  lizards  gambol  near  her  on  the  stone — 
Per gf  Occhi  almeno  non  vc  Clalisura. 

She  counts  the  huddled  hamlets  one  by  one. 

Whose  campanili  top  their  clustering  pines, 
Marks  every  quivering  sVream  that  takes  th^  sun, 
Orchards,  and  olive-gardens  looped  with  vines ; 
And  spiny  locust-trees  along  a  road 

That  threads   the  little   bourg  where  she  was 
born. 
Then   last,    the   whitewashed    farm    where    once 
abode 
Hopes  that  her  vows  forbid  her  e'en  to  mourn — 
Per  gl'  Occhi  ahncno  non  vv  Ctniisura, 


i  , 


PER   GL'  OCCHI 


233 


O  patient  eyes,  what  if  your  halting  sweep 

Of  eager  search  down  from  that  mountain  cage 
Match  but  the  fingers  of  the  blind  that  creep. 

And  falter,  labouring  o'er  their  fretted  page ! 
And  what,  O  fasting  soul,  if,  sore  in  need. 

Thy  faith  to  thine  own  feigning  thou  hast  lent, 
Like  shipwrecked  starvelings  who  are  driven  to 
feed 

On  husk  and  herb  that  bear  no  nutriment ! — 
Per  gC  Occhi  almeno  non  vc  Claiisnra. 


Too  like  to  us  thou  art,  O  soul  fast  hemmed. 

And  ye  too  like  to  us,  ye  patient  eyes ; 
We  too  are  famine  stricken,  and  condemned 

To  cheat  our  cravings  with  sweet  forgeries  ; 
Pent  up  in  life  and  time,  with  Death's  high  pale 

Between  us  and  our  lost  ones,  we  are  fain 
To  soothe  our  souls  with  dreams  that  less  avail 

Even  than  your  musings  o'er  your  Tuscan  plain — 
Per  gl'  Occhi  almeno  non  ve  Claiisnra. 


Like  you    we   murmur,    "Where   and   what   are 


th 


ey 


And  are  they  happy  ?     Do  they  love  us  yet  ? 
Do  their  plumes  ever  take  our  earthward  way  ? 

Or  is  our  cell  indeed  an  oubliette 
Wherein  we  lie  forgotten  in  our  night. 

While  they  in  effortless  effulgence  float 
From  marvel  unto  marvel,  with  the  light 

Of  their  pure  will  for  steed  and  chariot — 

Per gF  Occhi  almeno  non  vc  Clalisura. 


234 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


We  can  but  dream  of  them  as  once  they  were, 

Our  visions  are  but  symbols  of  their  change  ; 
White  robes,  steed,  chariot,  pinions,  golden  hair, 

Are  but  wild  phantoms  which  our  visual  range 
Compounds  from  mortal  loveliness  and  power, 

Whereunder  gleams  the  essence  we  adore  ; 
We  can  but  ransack  earth  their  forms  to  dower 

With  all  we  see,  and  puny  is  our  store — 

Per  sr  Occhi  almeno  non  ve  Clausnra. 

Who  from  its  nest— who  never  knew  a  bird— 

Could    dream    of  eagle's    glance    or    swallow's 
flight. 
Or  how  the  nightingale  with  songs  unheard 

Doth  sanctify  the  silence  of  the  night  ? 
Who  from  a  seed  could  hint  the  towering  pine. 

Or  guess  the  pendant  fruitage  of  the  palm. 
The  wine-stored  clusters  of  the  stooping  vine, 

The  blushing  rose's  lips  and  mystic  balm  ? — 
Per  si'  Occhi  almeno  non  vv  Chiiisura. 

Yet  not,  monastic  Comrade,  not  in  vain, 
We  beat  with  baffled  souls  at  prison  bars ; 

Thou  yearning  for  thy  home  in  yonder  plain, 
We  tracking  our  lost  treasure  through  the  stars  ; 

'Tis  sweet  to  cheat  ourselves  a  little  while. 
And  somethinor  gained  it  is  for  us  and  thee. 

An  hour  or  two  of  longing  to  beguile 


In  blindly  murmuring,  "We  see,  we  see 


It 


Per  ol  Occhi  almeno  non  vc  Clausnra. 

E.  II.  Pember 


THE  UNKNOWN  MADONNA  235 

THE   UNKNOWN  MADONNA 
(PERUGIA) 

I   KNOW  that  picture's  meaning, — the  unknown 
Called  school  of  Umbria  ;  it  stands  alone  ; 
Those  prayerful  fingers  never  worked  to  fame, — 
A  master's  hand,  though  silence  keeps  his  name. 
But  for  the  meaning,  gaze  awhile  and  plain 
The  thought  he  worked  in  warms  to  life  again ; 
Love  made  those  features  living,  such  a  face 
Smiled  once, — on  whom  ?     Say  in  a  lofty  place 
He  could  not  climb  to, — in  those  eyes'  blue  deeps 
The  reverence  of  unreached  ideals  keeps 
The  human  memorv,  not  a  face  of  dreams, 
And  coldly  beautiful,  but  one  that  seems 
Caught  in  the  likeness  that  a  lover's  eyes 
Devoutly  worshipped  to  idealize ; 
And  since  creation  is  akin  to  prayer 
He   made   that   face  God's  Mother,  and  set  her 

there 
Among  the  lilies  by  the  hill-side. town. 
And  then  the  child,  a  flower-face  to  crown 
The  human  love-dream,  little  hands  entwined 
Round  one  surrendered  finger,  to  my  mind 
Just  such  close  watching,  tenderness  expressed. 
As  those  who  miss  it  learn  to  look  for  best. 
Perugian,  say  we, —  look,  the  lilies  lean 
Against  the  mountain,  dips  the  vale  between, 
Yonder's  Assisi  on  the  nearer  ridge. 
And    that's    the    gorge    that    hides    the    giant 

bridge 
Joining  Spoleto,  and  beyond,  away 
Hill-crests  like  waves  in  purple  to  mid-day. 


236 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


ii 


That  was  his  thought,  to  make  his  art  his  shrine, 
And  lift  her  human  up  to  the  divine  ; 
So  smiles  Madonna,  so  evermore  sits  she 
Against  the  Umbrian  blue  mountain  sea. 

Why  do  I  think  so  ?     Why,  because  if  I 
Could  paint  just  one  such  picture  ere  I  die, 
Make  one  thought  everlasting,  I  would  choose 
His  theme,  the  Mother  and  the  Child,  and  use 
A  face  as  sweet  as  this  was  ;  in  the  Child 
Reflect  its  beauty,  only  undefiled 
Of  pain  and  sorrow  and  knowledge,  and  would 

set 
Both  in  a  garden  that  is  lilied  yet 
VV^ith  beds  her  own  hands  tended,  and  enclose 
All  in  a  girdle  of  the  hills  she  chose 
Of  earth's  fair  homes  to  dwell  in,  keeping  so 
The  tender  fragrance  of  dead  years  ago. 

I  would  not  change  these  few  square  feet  for  halls 

Of  Ghirlandajo,  for  the  magic  walls 

Of  this  your  Cambio, — I  would  rather  keep 

My  silent  record  of  his  nameless  sleep. 

Dream    back   his  story  through   the   long   blank 

years — 
Believe  those  lilies  once  were  dewed  with  tears. 

Sir  Uennell  Rodd 


FROM    PERUGIA 

THE  tall,  sallow  guardsmen  their  Iiorse-tails 
have  spread. 
Flaming  out  in  their  violet,  yellow  and  red ; 
And  behind  go  the  lackeys  in  crimson  and  buff. 
And  the  chamberlains  gorgeous  in  velvet  and  ruff; 


^.x 


FROM   PERUGIA 


237 


m 


Next,   in  red-legged   pomp,  come   the  cardinals 

forth. 
Each  a  lord  of  the  church  and  a  prince  of  the 

earth. 

What's  this  squeak  of  the  fife,  and  this  batter  of 

drum  } 
Lo  !  the  Swiss  of  the  Church  from  Perugia  come, — 
The  militant  angels,  whose  sabres  drive  home 
To  the  hearts  of  the  malcontents,  cursed  and  ab- 
horred. 
The  good  father's  missives,  and  "Thus  saith  the 

Lord !  " 
And  lend  to  his  logic  the  point  of  the  sword ! 

O  maids  of  Etruria,  gazing  forlorn 

O'er  dark  Thrasymenus,  dishevelled  and  torn ! 

O  fathers,  who  pluck  at  your  gray  beards  for 
shame ! 

O  mothers,  struck  dumb  by  a  woe  without  name ! 

Well  ye  know  how  the  Holy  Church  hireling  be- 
haves. 

And  his  tender  compassion  of  prisons  and  graves  ! 

There  they  stand,  the  hired  stabbers,  the  blood- 
stains yet  fresh, 

That  splashed  like  red  wine  from  the  vintage  of 
flesh, — 

Grim  instruments,  careless  as  pincers  and  rack 

How  the  joints  tear  apart,  and  the  strained  sinews 
crack ; 

But  the  hate  that  glares  on  them  is  sharp  as 
their  swords. 

And  the  sneer  and  the  scowl  print  the  air  with 
fierce  words ! 


238 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


FROM   PERUGIA 


239 


Off'  with  hats,  down  with  knees,  shout  your  vivas 

like  mad  ! 
Here's    the    Pope    in    his    holiday    righteousness 

clad, 
From  shorn  crown  to  toe-nail,  kiss-worn  to  the 

quick, 
Of  sainthood  in  purple  the  pattern  and  pick, 
Who   the    role    of    the    priest    and    the    soldier 

unites. 
And,  praying  like  Aaron,  like  Joshua  fights  ! 

Is  this  Pio  Nono  the  gracious,  for  whom 
We  sang  our  hosannas  and  lighted  all  Rome  ; 
With    whose  advent    we    dreamed   the    new    era 

began 
When  the  priest  should  be  human,  the  monk  be  a 

man  ? 
Ah,  the  wolfs  with  the  sheep,  and  the  fox  with 

the  fowl. 
When  freedom  we  trust  to  the  crozier  and  cowl ! 

Stand  aside,  men  of  Rome  I  Here's  a  hangman- 
faced  Swiss 

(A  blessing  for  him  surely  can't  go  amiss) 

Would  kneel  down  the  sanctified  slipper  to  kiss. 

Short  shrift  will  suffice  him, — he's  blest  beyond 
doubt ; 

But  there's  blood  on  his  hands  which  would 
scarcely  wash  out. 

Though  Peter  himself  held  the  baptismal  spout ! 

Make  way  for  the  next  I     Here's  another  sweet 

son  ! 
What's  this  mastiff-jawed  rascal  in  epaulets  done  ? 


He  did,  whispers  rumour,  (its  truth  God  forbid !) 

At  Perugia  what  Herod  at  Bethlehem  did. 

And  the  mothers? — Don't  blame   them! — these 

humours  of  war 
They  who  keep  him  in  service  must  pardon  him 

for. 


Hist !  here's  the  arch-knave  in  a  cardinal's  hat, 
With  the  heart  of  a  wolf  and   the  stealth  of  a 

cat 
(As  if  Judas  and  Herod  together  were  rolled), 
Who  keeps,  all  in  one,  the  Pope's  conscience  and 

gold. 
Mounts    guard    on    the    altar,    and    pilfers    from 

thence, 
And  flatters  St  Peter  while  stealing  his  pence ! 


Who  doubts  Antonelli  ?     Have  miracles  ceased 
When  robbers  say  mass,  and  Barabbas  is  priest  ? 
When  the  Church  eats  and  drinks,  at  its  mystical 

board, 
The  true  flesh  and  blood  carved  and  shed  by  its 

sword. 
When  its  martyr,  unsinged,  claps  the  crown  on 

his  head. 
And  roasts,  as  his  proxy,  his  neighbour  instead ! 


There  !  the  bells  jow  and  jangle  the  same  blessed 

way 
That  they  did  when  they  rang  for  Bartholomew's 

day. 


ill 


li'i 


240 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


Hark  !  the  tallow-faced  monsters,  nor  women  nor 

boys, 
Vex  the  air  with  a  shrill,  sexless  horror  of  noise. 
Te  Deum  laudamus  ! — All  around  without  stint 
The  incense-pot  swings  with  a  taint  of  blood  in't ! 

And  now  for  the  blessing  !     Of  little  account. 
You   know,   is   the    old    one    they    heard  on  the 

Mount. 
Its  giver  was  landless,  his  raiment  was  poor, 
No  jewelled  tiara  his  fishennen  wore  ; 
No  incense,  no  lackeys,  no  riches,  no  home. 
No   Swiss   guards ! — We   order  things   better   at 

Rome. 


So  bless  us  the  strong   hand,  and  curse  us  the 

weak ; 
Let  Austria's  vulture  have  food  for  her  beak  ; 
Let  the  wolf-whelp  of  Naples  play  Bomba  again, 
With   his  death-cap  of  silence,    and   halter,   and 

chain  ; 
Put  reason  and  justice  and  truth  under  ban  ; 
For  the  sin  unforgiven  is  freedom  for  man  ! 

John  GreenleaJ  Whittier 


THE   SERMON   OF   ST   FRANCIS 

UP  soared  the  lark  into  the  air, 
A  shaft  of  song,  a  winged  prayer, 
As  if  a  soul,  released  from  pain 
Were  flying  back  to  heaven  again. 


THE   SERMON  241 

St  Francis  heard  ;  it  was  to  him 
An  emblem  of  the  Seraphim ; 
The  upward  motion  of  the  fire. 
The  light,  the  heat,  the  heart's  desire. 

Around  Assisi's  convent  gate 
The  birds,  God's  poor  who  cannot  wait, 
From  moor  and  mere  and  darksome  wood 
Came  flocking  for  their  dole  of  food. 

"  O  brother  birds,"  St  Francis  said, 
"  Ye  come  to  me  and  ask  for  bread. 
But  not  with  bread  alone  to-day 
Shall  ye  be  fed  and  sent  away. 

"  Ye  shall  be  fed,  ye  happy  birds. 

With  manna  of  celestial  words  ; 

Not  mine,  though  mine  they  seem  to  be, 

Not  mine,  though  they  be  spoken  through  me. 


it 


O,  doubly  are  ye  bound  to  praise 
The  great  Creator  in  your  lays ; 
He  giveth  you  your  plumes  of  down. 
Your  crimson  hoods,  your  cloaks  of  brown. 


"  He  giveth  you  your  wings  to  fly 
And  breathe  a  purer  air  on  high. 
And  careth  for  you  everywhere. 
Who  for  yourselves  so  little  care  !  " 

With  flutter  of  swift  wings  and  songs 
Together  rose  the  feathered  throngs. 
And  singing  scattered  far  apart; 
Deep  peace  was  in  St  Francis'  heart. 

Q 


>*, 


242  SKIES    ITALIAN 

He  knew  not  if  the  brotherhood 
His  homily  had  understood  ; 
He  only  knew  that  to  one  ear 
The  meaning  of  his  words  was  clear. 

Henry  Wadstvorlh  Longfellow 


LUCA   SIGNORELLI       243 

Morn  wore  to  noon,  and  noon  to  eve,  when  shyly 
A  little  maid  peeped  in,  and  saw  the  painter 
Painting  his  dead  son  with  unerring  hand-stroke. 
Firm  and  dry-eyed  before  the  lordly  canvas. 

John  Addington  Symonds 


'    L' 


AN   EPISODE 

VASARI  tells  that  Luca  Signorelli, 
The  morning  star  of  Michael  Angelo, 
Had  but  one  son,  a  youth  of  seventeen  summers. 
Who  died.     That  day  the  master  at  his  easel 
Wielded  the  liberal  brush  wherewith  he  painted 
At  Orvieto,  on  the  Duomo's  walls. 
Stem  forms  of  Death  and  Heaven  and  Hell  and 

Judgment. 
Then  came  they  to  him,  and  cried  :  "  Thy  son  is 

dead, 
Slain  in  a  duel :  but  the  bloom  of  life 
Yet  lingers  round  red  lips  and  downy  cheek." 
Luca  spoke  not,  but  listened.     Next  they  bore 
His  dead  son  to  the  silent  painting-room, 
And  left  on  tiptoe  son  and  sire  alone. 
Still  Luca  spoke  and  groaned  not ;  but  he  raised 
The    wonderful    dead   youth,   and   smoothed   his 

hair. 
Washed    his    red    wounds,   and    laid    him   on   a 

bed. 
Naked  and  beautiful,  where  rosy  curUins 
Shed  a  soft  glimmer  of  uncertain  splendour 
Life-like  upon  the  marble  limbs  below. 
Then  Luca  seized  his  palette :  hour  by  hour 
Silence  was  in  the  room ;  none  durst  approach  : 


LUCA   SIGNORELLI   TO    HIS   SON 

(1500) 

THEY   brought  thy    body  back  to  me  quite 
dead. 
Just  as  thou  hadst  been  stricken  in  the  brawl. 
I  let  no  tear,  I  let  no  curses  fall. 
But  signed  to  them  to  lay  thee  on  the  bed ; 
Then,  with  clenched  teeth,  I  stripped  thy  clothes 
soaked  red 
And  taking  up  my  pencil  at  God's  call, 
All  through  the  night  I  drew  thy  muscles  all. 
And  writhed  at  every  beauty  of  thy  head ; 
For  I  required  the  glory  of  thy  limbs 

To  lend  it  to  archangel  and  to  saint. 
And  of  thy  brow,  for  brows  with  halo  rims ; 
And  thou  shalt  stand,  in  groups  which  I  will  paint 

Upon  God's  walls,  till,  like  procession  hymns 
Lost  in  the  distance,  ages  make  them  faint. 

Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 


-r^ 


THE  ROMAN  CAMPAGNA 


THE   ROMAN   CAMPAGNA 


ROME   UNVISITED 


THE  corn  has  turned  from  grey  to  red, 
Since  first  my  spirit  wandered  forth 
From  the  drear  cities  of  the  north, 
And  to  Italia's  mountains  fled. 

And  here  I  set  my  face  towards  home, 
For  all  my  pilgrimage  is  done, 
Although,  methinks,  yon  blood-red  sun 

Marshals  the  way  to  Holy  Rome. 

O  Blessed  Lady,  who  dost  hold 
Upon  the  seven  hills  thy  reign  ! 

0  Mother  without  blot  or  stain. 
Crowned  with  bright  crowns  of  triple  gold  ! 

O  Roma,  Roma,  at  thy  feet 

1  lay  this  barren  gift  of  song ! 

For,  ah  !  the  way  is  steep  and  long 
That  leads  unto  thy  sacred  street. 

II 

And  yet  what  joy  it  were  for  me 
To  turn  my  feet  unto  the  south, 
And  journeying  towards  the  Tiber  mouth 

To  kneel  again  at  Fiesole  ! 

247 


248  SKIES    ITALIAN 

And  wandering  through  the  tangled  pines 

That  break  the  gold  of  Arno's  stream, 

To  see  the  purple  mist  and  gleam 

Of  morning  on  the  Apennines. 

• 

By  many  a  vineyard-hidden  home. 
Orchard,  and  olive-garden  grey, 
Till  from  the  drear  Campagna's  way 

The  seven  hills  bear  up  the  dome ! 

Oscar  Wilde 


\ 

/ 


ROMAN   MAY 
{To  F.  M.) 

A  WOMAN  said  to  me  :  If  I 
Might  choose  my  heaven  when  I  die, 
I  would  not  seek  for  some  new  height 
Of  undiscoverable  delight. 
Nor,  upon  earth,  seek  to  surprise 
An  undiscovered  paradise, 
If  but  my  un forgetting  ghost 
Might  come  again  and  find  what  most 
It  loved  on  earth,  and,  living,  lost ; 
And  I  would  ask  that  it  might  come 
Only  in  May,  only  in  Rome. 

Arthur  SyjnoJis 

ROME 

OROME  !  my  country  !  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to 
thee, 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  !  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 


ROME 


249 


What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ?    Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  ye 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day, — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

The  Niobe  of  nations  !  there  she  stands. 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe ; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  withered  hands, 
Whose  holy  du^  was  scattered  long  ago. 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers :  dost  thou  flow, 
O  Tiber,  through  a  marble  wilderness  ? 
Rise,   with    thy   yellow    waves,  and    mantle    her 
distress. 

Alas,  the  lofty  city  !  and  alas, 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs  !  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away  ! 
Alas  for  TuUy's  voice  and  Virgil's  lay 
And  Livy's  pictured  page  !     But  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection  !  all  beside — decay. 
Alas  for  earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome 

was  free ! 

Lord  Byron 

ROME 

YE  hills  superb,  ye  ruins  which  retain 
Of   Rome   the    name   august,   and    but    the 
name, 
What  relics  of  the  height  of  human  fame, 
What  traces  of  exalted  souls  remain  ! 


W 


^ 


250  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Those  statues,  arches,  theatres  ;— in  vain 

Those    works    divine,    that    splendour    which 

became 
The  Queen  of  cities.     Time,— devouring  flame 
Have  sunk  in  dust !     Pomp,  joy,  long  and  trium  - 

phal  reign, 
A  theme  of  vulgar  scorn  !— If  works  like  these 

Can  for  some  space  with  Time  the  conflict  dare. 
Slowly  the  victor  marches,  sure  to  seize, — 

Content  my  own  distress  shall  I  not  bear  ? 

Since  all  on  earth  must  yield  to  Time's  decrees, 

Time  will  relieve  my  anguish,  end  my  care. 

Baldassar  Castigliofie, 

tr.  Capet  Lojfl 


NEAR   ROME,   IN  SIGHT   OF  ST   PETER'S 

LONG  has  the  dew  been  dried  on  tree  and 
lawn : 
O'er  man  and  beast  a  not  unwelcome  boon 
Is  shed,  the  languor  of  approaching  noon  ; 
To  shady  rest  withdrawing  or  withdrawn 
Mute  are  all  creatures,  as  this  couchant  fawn. 
Save  insect-swarms  that  hum  in  air  afloat. 
Save  that  the  cock  is  crowing,  a  shrill  note. 
Startling   and  shrill    as   that   which   roused   the 
dawn. 

Heard  in  that  hour,  or  when,  as  now,  the  nerve 

Shrinks  from  the  note  as  from  a  mistimed  thing. 
Oft  for  a  holy  warning  it  may  serve, 

Charged  with  remembrance  of  his  sudden  sting. 
His  bitter  tears,  whose  name  the  Papal  Chair 
And  yon  resplendent  Church  are  proud  to  bear. 

IVilliavi  IVordsworth 


SONNET 


ST   PETER'S  BY  MOONLIGHT 


251 


LOW  hung  the  moon  when  first  I  stood  in 
Rome ; 
Midway  she  seemed  attracted  from  her  sphere. 
On   those   twin   fountains   shining   broad   and 
clear 
Whose   floods,    not   mindless   of  their   mountain 

home, 
Rise  there  in  clouds  of  rainbow  mist  and  foam. 
That  hour  fulfilled  the  dream  of  many  a  year : 
Through  that  thin  mist,  with  joy  akin  to  fear, 
The  steps  I  saw,  the  pillars,  last,  the  dome. 
A  spiritual  empire  there  embodied  stood ; 

The  Roman  church  there  met  me  face  to  face  : 
Ages,  sealed  up,  of  evil  and  of  good 
Slept  in  that  circling  colonnade's  embrace. 
Alone  I  stood,  a  stranger  and  alone, 
Changed  by  that  stony  miracle  to  stone. 

Aubrei/  de  Vere 

SONNET 

{On  hearing  the  Dies  Iroi  sung  in  the  Sistine  Chapel) 

m 

NAY,    Lord,  not   thus !    white   lilies   in  the 
spring. 
Sad  olive-groves,  or  silver-breasted  dove. 
Teach  me  more  clearly  of  Thy  life  and  love 
Than  terrors  of  red  flame  and  thundering. 
The   empurpled   vines   dear   memories   of   Thee 
bring  : 
A  bird  at  evening  flying  to  its  nest. 
Tells  me  of  One  who  had  no  place  of  rest : 
I  think  it  is  of  Thee  the  sparrows  sing. 


252  SKIES   ITALIAN 

Come  rather  on  some  autumn  afternoon, 

When    red    and    brown  are   burnished  on   the 

leaves, 
And  the  fields  echo  to  the  gleaner's  song, 
Come  when  the  splendid  fulness  of  the  moon 
Looks  down  upon  the  rows  of  golden  sheaves. 
And  reap  Thy  harvest :  we  have  waited  long. 
^  Oscar  Wilde 


THE   SISTIXE   CHAPEL 


THE    MISERERE 

THOSE  sounds  expiring  on  mine  ear,  mine 
eye 
Was  by  a  corresponding  impress  spelled : 
A  vision  of  the  angels  that  rebelled 
Still  hung  before  me  through  the  yielding  sky. 
Sinking  on  plumes  outstretched  imploringly. 
Their  tempter's  hopes  and  theirs  forever  quelled, 
They  sank,  with  hands  upon  their  eyes  clos^ 

held. 
And  longed,  methought,  for  death,  yet  could  not 

die. 
Down,  ever  down,  a  mournful  pageant  streamuig 
With  the  slow,  ceaseless  motion  of  a  river, 
Inwoven  chords  to  ruin  blindly  tending. 
They    sank.       I    wept   as  one  who  weeps  while 
dreaming 
To   see    them,   host    on    host,   by    force    de- 
scending 
Down  the  dim  gulfs,  forever  and  forever. 


.1 


THE    BISHOFS    TOMB     253 


II 

From  sadness  on  to  sadness,  woe  to  woe. 
Searching  all  depths  of  grief  ineffable, 
Those  sighs  of  the  forsaken  sink  and  swell, 

And  to  a  piercing  shrillness,  gathering,  grow. 

Now  one  by  one,  commingling  now  they  flow ; 
Now  in  the  dark  they  die,  a  piteous  knell. 
Lorn  as  the  wail  of  exiled  Israel, 

Or  Hagar  weeping  o'er  her  outcast.     No, — 

Never  hath  loss  external  forced  such  sighs ! 
O  ye  with  secret  sins  that  inly  bleed, 
And  drift  from  God,  search  out,  if  ye  are  wise. 

Your  unrepented  infelicities : 

And  pray,  whate'er  the  punishment  decreed. 
It  prove  not  exile  from  your  Maker's  eyes. 

Aubrey  de  Verc 


N 


THE   BISHOP   ORDERS    HIS   TOMB   AT 
SAINT    PRAXED'S   CHURCH 

{Rome,  15 — ) 

VANITY,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity  ! 
Draw    round    my    bed  :   is    Anselm    keeping 

back  } 
Nephews — sons  mine  ...  ah  God,  I  know  not ! 

Well- 
She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother  once, 
Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was  ! 
What's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead  beside. 
Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since, 
And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  ourselves, 
And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world's  a  dream. 


/ 


254  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Life,  how  and  what  is  it  ?     As  here  I  lie 
In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees. 
Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night,  I  ask 
"Do  I   live,  am  I  dead?"     Peace,  peace  seems 

all. 
Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  for  peace ; 
And  so,  about  this  tomb  of  mine.      I  fought 
With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche,  ye  know*: 
—Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my  care  ; 
Shrewd  was  that  snatch  from  out  the  comer  South 
He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse  the  same ! 
Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but  thence 
One  sees  the  pulpit  o'  the  epistle-side. 
And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent  seats. 
And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 
The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam's  sure  to  lurk  : 
And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there. 
And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 
With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two  and  two, 
The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselra  stands  : 
Peach-blossom  marble  all,  the  rare,  the  ripe 
As  fresh-poured  red  wine  of  a  mighty  pulse. 
—Old  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion-stone, 
Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him !     True  peach. 
Rosy  and  flawless  :  how  I  earned  the  prize  ! 
Draw  close  :  that  conflagration  of  my  church 
What  then  ?     So  much  was  saved  if  aught  were 

missed ! 
My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death  ?     Go  dig 
The  white-grape  where  the  oil-press  stood. 
Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink. 
And  if  ye  find  .  .  .  Ah  God,  I  know  not,  I  !  .  .  . 
Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  fig-leaves  soft. 
And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail, 


THE    BISHOP'S   TOMB     255 


Some  lump,  ah  God,  of  lapis  lazuli, 
Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 
Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the  Madonna's  breast  .  .  . 
Sons,  all  I  have  bequeathed  you,  villas,  all. 
That  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath. 
So,  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my  knees. 
Like  God  the  Father  s  globe  on  both  his  hands 
Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  church  so  gay, 
For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and  burst ! 
Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years  : 
Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he  ? 
Did  I  say  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons  }     Black — 
'Twas  ever  antique-black  I  meant !     How  else 
Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come  beneath  ? 
The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me. 
Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of,  and  perchance 
Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so. 
The  Saviour  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount. 
Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan 
Ready  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  garment  off. 
And  Moses  with  the  tables  .  .   .  but  I  know 
Ye  mark  me  not !     What  do  they  whisper  thee, 
Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm  ?     Ah,  ye  hope 
To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp 
Bricked  o'er  with  beggars'  mouldy  travertine 
Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb- top  chuckles  at ! 
Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me — all  of  jasper,  then  ! 
'Tis  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest  I  grieve. 
My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind,  alas ! 
One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio-nut. 
There's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the  world — 
And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 
Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  manuscripts, 
And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly  limbs  ? 


I 


III 


256  SKIES   ITALIAN 

—That's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright, 

Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase.  Tally's  every  word. 

No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolfs  second  line— 

Tully,  my  masters  ?     Ulpian  serves  his  need  ! 

And  then  how  I  shall  lie  through  centuries, 

And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass. 

And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day  long. 

And  feel  the  steady  candle-flame,  and  taste 

Good  strong  thick  stupefying  incense-smoke ! 

For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night, 

Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 

I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook. 

And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as  stone  can 

point. 
And  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortcloth,  drop 
Into  ^reat  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's-work  : 
And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange  thoughts 
Grow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my  ears. 
About  the  life  before  I  lived  this  life. 
And  this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals  and  priests. 
Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 
Y^our  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking  eyes. 
And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh  as  day, 
And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  discreet, 

Aha,  ELUCESCEBAT  quoth  our  friend  ? 

No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best ! 
Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 
All  lapis,  all,  sons  !     Else  1  give  the  Pope 
My  villas  !     Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart  ? 
Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick, 
They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for  my  soul. 
Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impoverished  frieze. 
Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill  my  vase 
With  grapes,  and  add  a  vizor  and  a  Term, 


THE   LACHRYMATORY    257 

And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 

That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyrsus  down, 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 

Whereon  I  am  to  lie  till  I  must  ask 

"  Do  I  live,  am  I  dead  ?  "     There,  leave  me,  there  ! 

For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingratitude 

To  death — ye  wish  it — God,  ye  wish  it !     Stone — 

Gritstone,   a-crumble  I      Clammy   squares   which 

sweat 
As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing  through — 
And  no  more  lapis  to  delight  the  world  ! 
Well,  go  !     I  bless  ye.     Fewer  tapers  there. 
But  in  a  row  :  and,  going,  turn  your  backs 
— Ay,  like  departing  altar-ministrants. 
And    leave    me    in   my    church,   the    church   for 

peace, 
That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers — 
Old  Gandolf — at  me,  from  his  onion-stone, 
As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was ! 

Robert  Bronming 

THE    LACHRYMATORY 

FROM  out  the  grave  of  one  whose  budding 
years 
Were   cropped  by  death,  when   Rome  was  in 
her  prime, 
I  brought  the  phial  of  his  kinsman's  tears. 
There  placed,  as  was  the  wont  of  ancient  time ; 

Round  me,  that  night,  in  meads  of  asphodel. 
The  souls  of  the  early  dead  did  come  and  go. 

Drawn  by  that  flask  of  grief,  as  by  a  spell, 
That  long-imprisoned  shower  of  human  woe. 


I'  ' 


!!' 


i^ 


258  SKIES   ITALIAN 

As  round  Ulysses,  for  the  draught  of  blood 

The  heroes  thronged,  those   spirits  flocked  to 

me,  -  J  , 

Where,  lonely,  with  that  charm  of  tears,  I  stood , 
Two,  most  of  all,  my  dreaming  eyes  did  see  ; 

The  young  Marcellus,  young,  but  great  and  good. 
And  Tully's  daughter,  mourned  so  tenderly. 

Charles  Tennyson  Tur 


umer 


ON    LUCRETIA   BORGIA'S    HAIR 

BORGIA,  thou  once  wert  almost  too  august 
And  high  for  adoration  ;  now  thou'rt  dust ; 
All  that  remains  of  thee  these  plaits  unfold. 
Calm  hair  meandering  in  pellucid  gold. 

Walter  Savage  Landor 

VILLA    BORGHESE 

A  GRACE  of  winter  breathing  like  the  spring ; 
Solitude,  silence,  the  thin  whispering 
Of  water  in  the  fountains,  that  all  day 
Talk  with  the  leaves ;  the  winds,  gentle  as  they, 
Rustle  the  silken  garments  of  their  speech 
Rarely,  for  they  keep  silence,  each  by  each, 
The  dim  green  silence  of  the  dreaming  trees, 
Cypress  and  pine  and  the  cloaked  ilexes. 
That  winter  never  chills ;  and  all  these  keep 
A  sweet  and  grave  and  unawakening  sleep, 
Reticent  of  its  dreams,  but  hearing  all 
The  babble  of  the  fountains  as  they  fall. 
Chattering  bright  and  irresponsible  words 
As  in  a  baby-speech  of  liquid  birds. 

Arthur  Symons 


NAME  WRIT  IN  WATER  259 

AN    INSCRIPTION   IN    ROME 

SOMETHING  there  is  in  Death  not  all  unkind  ; 
He  hath  a  gentler  aspect,  looking  back  ; 
For  flowers  may  bloom  in  the  dread  thunder's 

track, 
And  even  the  cloud  that  struck  with  light  was 
lined. 
Thus,  when  the  heart  is  silent,  speaks  the  mind ; 
For  there  are  moments  when   comes  rushing, 

black 
And  fierce  upon  us,  the  old,  awful  lack, 
And  Death  once  more  is  cruel,  senseless,  blind. 
So  when  I  saw  beside  a  Roman  portal 

*' In  this  house  died  John   Keats" — for  tears 

that  sprung 
1  could  no  further  read.     O  bard  immortal ! 
Not  for  thy  fame's  sake — but  so  young,  so  young  ; 
Such  beauty  vanished ;    spilled  such   heavenly 

wine ; 
All   quenched    that    power   of  deathless  song 
divine ! 

Richard  Watson  Gilder 


THE   NAME   WRIT   IN   WATER 

{Piazza  di  Spagfia,  Rome) 
The  Spirit  of  the  Fountain  speaks  : 

\7'ONl)ER'S  the  window  my  })oet  would  sit  in 
While  my  song  murmured  of  happier  days  ; 
Mine  is  the  water  his  name  has  been  writ  in, 
Sure  and  immortal  my  share  in  his  praise. 


260  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Gone  are  the  pilgrims  whose  green  wreaths  here 
hung  for  him, — 
Gone  from  their  fellows  like  bubbles  of  foam ; 
Long    shall    outlive   them   the   songs   have   been 
sung  for  him  ; 
Mine  is  eternal— or  Rome  were  not  Rome. 

Far  on  the  mountain  my  fountain  was  fed  for  him, 
Bringing   soft   sounds    that    his    nature    loved 

best : 
Sighing  of  pines  that  had  fain  made  a  bed  for 

him  ; 
Seafaring  rills,  on  their  musical  quest. 

Bells  of  the  fairies  at  eve,  that  I  rang  for  him  ; 

Nightingale's  glee,  he  so  well  understood  ; 
Chan't  of  the  dryads  at  dawn,  that  I  sang  for  him  ; 

Swish  of  the  snake  at  the  edge  of  the  wood. 

Little  he  knew  'twixt  his  dreaming  and  sleeping. 
The  while  his  sick  fancy  despaired  of  his  fame. 

What  glory  I  held  in  my  loverly  keeping  : 
Listen  !  my  waters  will  whisper  his  name. 

Robert  Undent  ood  Johnson 

THE   GRAVE   OF    KEATS 

RID  of  the  world's  injustice,  and  his  pain, 
He  rests  at  last  beneath  God's  veil  of  blue  : 
Taken  from  life  when  life  and  love  were  new 
The  youngest  of  the  martyrs  here  is  lain, 
Fair  as  Sebastian,  and  as  early  slain. 

No  cypress  shades  his  grave,  no  funeral  yew, 
But  gentle  violets  weeping  with  the  dew 
Weave  on  his  bones  an  ever-blossoming  chain. 


GRAVE   OF   SHELLEY     261 

O  proudest  heart  that  broke  for  misery  ! 
O  sweetest  lips  since  those  of  Mitylene  ! 
O  poet-painter  of  our  English  land  ! 
Thy  name  was  writ  in  water — it  shall  stand : 
And  tears  like  mine  shall  keep  thy  memory 

green. 
As  Isabella  did  her  Basil-tree. 

Oscar  Wilde 


THE   GRAVE   OF   SHELLEY 

[Rome) 

LIKE  burnt-out  torches  by  a  sick  man's  bed 
Gaunt    cypresses     stand    round     the    sun- 
bleached  stone  ; 
Here    doth    the    little    night-owl    make    her 
throne, 
And  the  slight  lizard  show  his  jewelled  head. 
And,  where  the  chaliced  poppies  flame  to  red. 
In  the  still  chamber  of  yon  pyramid 
Surely  some    Old-World    Sphinx   lurks  darkly 
hid, 
(jrim  warder  of  this  pleasaunce  of  the  dead. 


Ah  !  sweet  indeed  to  rest  within  the  womb 

Of  earth,  great  mother  of  eternal  sleep. 
But  sweeter  far  for  thee  a  restless  tomb 

In  the  blue  caveni  of  an  echoing  deep, 
Or  where  the  tall  ships  founder  in  the  gloom 
Against    the    rocks    of    some    wave-shattered 
steep. 

Oscar  Wilde 


262 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


SONNET 


SANT'   ONOFRIO 


263 


AMONG  the  cypresses  young  Shelley  lies, 
Rests  Adonais  in  his  violet  bed  : 
Their  frail  dust  mingles  with  the  heroic  dead— 
Scipio's    and    Cesar's.       Joy!       In    the    radiant 

skies, 
Hid  in  the  quivering  dawn,  the  skylark  flies ; 

From  out  the  sun  its  silver  notes  are  shed. 

But  all  the  pale  stars  tremble  overhead 
When  from  the  dark  the  nightingale  replies. 

Roma  of  Ruins,  Roma  of  antique  day, 
Imperious  Mistress  of  the  historic  page. 

Gaze  on  thy  treasures  of  the  Appian  Way 
Exult  in  relics  of  thy  golden  age  ; 

Yet  look  upon  these  strangers'  graves  and  say, 
What  more  august  in  thy  proud  heritage  ? 

Sina  Morais  Cohen 

THREE    FLOWERS 

{To  Bayard  Taylor) 

HEREWITH      I    send    you    three    pressed 
withered  flowers  : 
This  one    was   white,  with   golden   star;    this, 

blue 
As  Capri's  cave  ;  that,  purple  and  shot  through 
With  sunset-orange.     Where  the   Duomo  towers 
In  diamond  air,  and  under  hanging  bowers 
The  Arno  glides,  this  faded  violet  grew 
On  Landor's  grave  ;  from  Landor's  heart  it  drew 
Its  magic  azure  in  the  long  spring  hours. 


Within  the  shadow  of  the  pyramid 
Of  Caius  Cestius  was  the  daisy  found. 
White  as  the  soul  of  Keats  in  Paradise. 

The  pansy — there  were  hundreds  of  them,  hid 
In  the  thick  grass  that  folded  Shelley's  mound. 
Guarding  his  ashes  with  most  lovely  eyes. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

SANT*    ONOFRIO 

THE  tepid  air  bespeaks  repose. 
The  noonday  city  sleeps  ; 
No  shadow  from  the  cypress  groves 
Athwart  the  Tiber  creeps. 
This  seems  the  very  land  of  rest 
To  wondering  wanderers  from  the  West, 

Who  walk  as  if  in  dreams ; 
English  ambition's  onward  cry. 
To  all  beneath  this  opiate  sky 
Yet  untranslated  seems. 

Here  is  the  goal ;  here  ended  all 

His  tragedy  of  life  ! 
The  honours,  banishment,  recall, 

The  love,  the  hate,  the  strife ! 
A  weary  man,  the  poet  came 
To  light  a  funeral-torch's  flame 

At  yonder  chancel  light ; 
When  here  he  summed  up  all  his  days. 
Heedless  of  human  blame  or  praise. 

And  turned  him  to  the  Night ! 

O  holy  Jerome !  at  thy  shrine. 
Who  could  hope  better  meed, 

Than  he  who  sang  the  song  divine 
Of  crusade  and  of  creed  ! 


m 


264  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Who  loved  upon  Jerusalem, 

As  thou  didst  when  at  Bethlehem, 

The  Master's  steps  to  trace  I 
Who  burned  to  tread  the  very  sod 
Imprinted  by  the  feet  of  God 

In  the  first  years  of  grace  I 

W>apt  in  the  shade  of  Tasso's  Oak, 

I  breathe  the  air  of  Rome  : 

He  found  his  final  home 
Where,  freed  from  every  patron's  yoke. 
The  Alban  and  the  Sabine  range 
Down  yonder,  seeming  nothing  strange. 

Although  first  seen  by  me  ; 
Firm  as  those  storied  highlands  stand. 
So,  deep-laid  in  Italian  land. 

Shall  Tasso's  glory  be. 

Calm  here,  within  his  altar-grave, 

The  restless  takes  his  rest ; 
Besculptured,  as  becomes  the  brave, 
With  nodding  casque  and  crest. 
And  shield,  on  which  we  trace  the  line. 
The  key-note  of  his  song  divine, 

"  Pro  Fide  ! "  Tasso  lies. 
So  may  we  find  our  legend  writ. 
What  time  the  Crucified  shall  sit 
For  judgment,  in  the  skies. 

Thomas  D\ircy  McGee 


THE   CAPITOL 


HILLS   OF    ROME 


265 


SHE,  whose  high    top  above  the  starres  did 
sore, 
One  foote  on  Thetis,  th'  other  on  the  Morning, 
One  hand  on  Scythia,  th'  other  on  the  More, 
Both    heaven   and  earth    in    roundnesse   com- 
passing ; 
Love  fearing,  least  if  she  should  greater  growe. 

The  Giants  old  should  once  againe  uprise. 
Her  whelm'd  with  hills,  these  Seven  Hills,  which 
be  nowe 
Tombes  of  her  greatness  which  did  threate  the 
skies : 
Upon  her  head  he  heapt  Mount  Saturnal, 

Upon  her  bellie  th'  antique  Palatine, 
Upon  her  stomacke  laid  Mount  Quirinal, 
On  her  left  hand  the  noysome  Esquiline, 

And    Caelian    on    the    right :    but    both    her 

feete 
Mount  Viminal  and  Aventine  doo  meete. 

Joachim  dit  Bellay, 

tr.  Edmund  Spenser 


THE   CAPITOL:     TASSO'S    CORONATION 

{Tasso  died  at  Rome  on  the  day  before  that  set 
for  his  coronation  in  the  Capitol) 

A  TRUMPET'S  note  is  in   the  sky,— in  the 
glorious  Roman  sky. 
Whose  dome  hath  rung,  so  many  an  age,  to  the 
voice  of  victory ; 


266  SKIES    ITALIAN 

There  is   crowding  to  the    Capitol    the  imperial 

streets  along, 
For  again  a  conqueror  must  be  crowned,— a  kingly 

child  of  song  : 

Yet  his  chariot  lingers, 
Yet  around  his  home 
Broods  a  shadow  silently, 
Midst  the  joy  of  Rome. 

A   thousand,  thousand   laurel-boughs  are  waving 

wide  and  far, 
To  shed  out  their  triumphal   gleams  around  his 

rolling  car ; 
A  thousand  haunts  of  olden  gods  have  given  their 

wealth  of  flowers. 
To  scatter  o'er  his  path  of  fame  bright  hues  in 
gemlike  showers. 

Peace !     Within  his  chamber 

Low  the  mighty  lies, — 

With  a  cloud  of  dreams  on  his  noble  brow, 

And  a  wandering  in  his  eyes. 

Sing,  sing  for  him,  the  lord  of  song,— for  him, 
whose  rushing  strain 

In  mastery  o'er  the  spirit  sweeps,  like  a  strong 
wind  o'er  the  main  ! 

Whose  voice  lives  deep  in  burning  hearts,  for- 
ever there  to  dwell, 

As   full-toned   oracles  are   shrined  in  a  temple's 

holiest  cell. 

Yes  !  for  him,  the  victor, 
Sing,— but  low,  sing  low  ! 
A  soft,  sad  miserere  chant 
For  a  soul  about  to  go ! 


PHILOSOPHIC   FLIGHT   267 

The  sun,  the  sun  of  Italy  is  pouring  o'er  his  way, 
Where  the  old  three  hundred  triumphs  moved,  a 

flood  of  golden  day  ; 
Streaming   through   every   haughty   arch    of  the 

Caesars'  past  renown,— 
Bring  forth,  in  that  exulting  light,  the  conqueror 
for  his  crown  ! 

Shut  the  proud,  bright  sunshine 
From  the  fading  sight ! 
There  needs  no  ray  by  the  bed  of  death, 
Save  the  holy  taper's  light. 

The  wreath   is  twined,  the  way  is   strewn,  the 

lordly  train  are  met, 
The  streets  are  hung  with  coronals, — why  stays 

the  minstrel  vet  ? 
Shout !  as  an  army  shouts  in  joy  around  a  royal 

chief, — 
Bring  forth  the  bard  of  chivalry,  the  bard  of  love 

and  grief! 

Silence  !  forth  we  bring  him, 

In  his  last  array  ; 

From  love  and  grief  the  freed,  the  flown, — 

Way  for  the  bier  ! — make  way  ! 

Felicia  Hemans 


THE   PHILOSOPHIC    FLIGHT 

NOW    that   these    wings  to   speed  my  wish 
ascend, 
The  more  I  feel  vast  air  beneath  my  feet. 
The  more  toward  boundless  air  on  pinions  fleet. 
Spurning  the  earth,  soaring  to  heaven,  I  tend  : 


268 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


Nor  makes  them  stoop  their  flight  the  direful  end 
Of  Daedal's  son  ;  but  upward  still  they  beat. 
What   life    the    while    with    this   death    could 

compete. 
If  dead  to  earth  at  last  1  must  descend  ? 
My  own  heart's  voice  in  the  void  air  1  hear. 

Where  wilt  thou  bear  me,  O  rash  man  !     Recall 
Thy  daring  will !     This  boldness  waits  on  fear  ! 
Dread  not,  I  answer,  that  tremendous  fall  : 

Strike    through    the    clouds,   and    smile    when 

death  is  near. 
If  death  so  glorious  be  our  doom  at  all  ! 

Giordano  Bruno, 
tr.  John  Addington  Symonds 

THE    RUINS   OF    ROME 

I 

THOU    stranger,   which   for    Rome   in    Rome 
here  seekest. 
And  nought  of  Rome  in  Rome  perceivst  at  all, 
These   same  olde  walls,  olde  arches,  which  thou 

seest, 
Olde  palaces,  is  that  which  Rome  men  call. 
Beholde  what  wreake,  what  ruine,  and  what  wast. 
And  how  that  she,  which  with  her  mightie  powre 
Tam'd  all  the  world,  hath  tam'd  herself  at  last ; 
The  pray  of  Time,  which  all  things  doth  devowre ! 
Rome  now  of  Rome  is  th'  onely  funerall, 
And  onely  Rome  of  Rome  hath  victorie ; 
Ne  ought  save  Tyber  hastning  to  his  fall 
Remaines  of  all  :  O  worlds  inconstancie  ! 
That  which  is  firme  doth  flit  and  fall  away. 
And  that  is  flitting  doth  abide  and  stay. 


THE    RUINS   OF    ROME     269 


II 

These   heapes  of  stones,  these  old  walls,  which 

ye  see. 
Were  first  enclosures  but  of  salvage  soyle  ; 
And  these  brave  pallaces,  which  maystred  bee 
Of  Time,  were  shepheards  cottages  somewhile. 
Then  tooke  the  shepheards  kingly  ornaments. 
And  the  stout  hynde  anned  his  right  hand  with 

Steele  : 
Eftsoones  their  rule  of  yearely  Presidents 
Grew  great,   and    sixe    months   greater   a    great 

deele  ; 
Which,  made  perpetuall,  rose  to  so  great  height, 
That  thence  th'  Imperiall  Eagle  rooting  tooke, 
Till    th'    heaven   it    selfe,   opposing    gainst    her 

might, 
Her  powers  to  Peters  successor  betooke  ; 

Who,  shepheardlike,  (as  Fates  the  same  fore- 
seeing), 

Doth  shew  that  all  things  turne  to  their  first 
being. 


ni 

O  that  I  had  the  Thracian  Poets  harpe, 
For  to  awake  out  of  th*  infernall  shade 
Those  antique  Ca?sars,  sleeping  long  in  darke. 
The  which  this  auncient  City  whilome  made  ! 
Or  that  I  had  Amphions  instrument. 
To  quicken,  with  his  vitall  notes  accord. 
The  stonie  ioynts  of  these  old  walls  now  rent. 
By  which  th'  Ausonian  light  might  be  restor'd  ! 


270 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


Or  that  at  least  I  could,  with  pencill  fine, 
Fashion  the  pourtraicts  of  these  palacis, 
By  paterne  of  great  Virgils  spirit  divine  I 
I  would  assay  with  that  which  in  me  is, 
To  builde,  with  levell  of  my  loftie  style, 
That  which  no  hands  can  evermore  compyle. 

Joachim  du  Bellay, 
tr.  Edmund  Spenser 


THE   COLISEUM 

ARCHES  on  arches  !  as  it  were  that  Rome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  uj)  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome, 
Her  Coliseum  stands  ;  the  moonbeams  shine 
As  'twere  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should    be    the   light  which   streams  here,  to 

illume 
This  long  explored  but  still  exhaustless  mine 
Of  contemplation  ;  and  the  azure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume 

Hues  which   have   words,   and   speak  to  ye  of 

heaven, 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument, 
And  shadows  forth  its  glory.     There  is  given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  Time  hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruined  battlement, 
For  which,  the  palace  of  the  j)resent  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,   and  wait  till  ages  are  its 

dower. 


THE  COLISEUM 


271 


And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran. 
In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  applause, 
As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow-man. 
And  wherefore  slaughtered  ?     Wherefore,  but 

because 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure.     Wherefore  not  } 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms, — on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot } 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie  : 

He  leans  upon  his  hand, — his  manly  brow 

Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 

And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low, — 

And  through   his  side   the   last  drops,  ebbing 

slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  :  he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the 

wretch  who  won. 


He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not :  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away  ; 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay. 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play. 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother, — he,  their  sire. 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday, — 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood, — shall  he  expire, 
And   unavenged  ? — Arise  !    ye    Goths,   and   glut 
your  ire  ! 


272 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


But  here,  where  murder  breathed  her  bloody 

steam  ;  ' 

And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the 

ways. 
And  roared  or  murmured  like  a  mountain-stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays ; 
Here,   where    the    Roman    million's    blame    or 

praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd, 
My  voice  sounds  much, — and  fall  the  star's  faint 

rays 
On  the  arena  void, — seats  crushed,  walls  bowed. 
And    galleries,    where    my    steps    seem    echoes 

strangely  loud. 

A  ruin, — yet  what  ruin  !  from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  reared  ; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass. 
And     marvel     where     the     spoil     could     have 

appeared. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plundered,  or  but  cleared  ? 
Alas  !  developed,  opens  the  decay, 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  neared  : 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have 

reft  away. 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there  ; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of 

time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air. 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear. 


THE    COLISEUM  273 

Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head ; 
When  the  light   shines   serene,  but  doth  not 

glare. 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead  : 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot,  'tis  on  their  dust  ye 
tread. 

Lord  Byron 

THE   COLISEUM 

TYPE  of  the  antique  Rome  !  Rich  reliquary 
Of  lofty  contemplation  left  to  Time 
By  buried  centuries  of  pomp  and  power ! 
At  length,  at  length,  after  so  many  days 
Of  weary  pilgrimage  and  burning  thirst 
(Thirst  for  the  springs  of  lore  that  in  thee  lie), 
I  kneel,  an  altered  and  a  humble  man. 
Amid  thy  shadows,  and  so  drink  within 
My  very  soul  thy  grandeur,  gloom,  and  glory ! 

Vastness,  and  age,  and  memories  of  eld  ! 

Silence,  and  desolation,  and  dim  night ! 

I  feel  ye  now,— I  feel  ye  in  your  strength,— 

O  spells  more  sure  than  e'er  Judaean  king 

Taught  in  the  gardens  of  Gethsemane ! 

O  charms  more  potent  than  the  rapt  Chaldee 

Ever  drew  down  from  out  the  quiet  stars  ! 

Here,  where  a  hero  fell,  a  column  falls ! 
Here,  where  the  mimic  eagle  glared  in  gold, 
A  midnight  vigil  holds  the  swarthy  bat ! 
Here,  where  the    dames  of   Rome  their  gilded 

hair 
Waved    to    the    wind,   now    wave    the   reed  and 

thistle ! 


I 


i<: 


274  SKIES   ITALIAN 

Here,   where    on    golden    throne    the    monarch 

lolled. 
Glides,  spectre-like,  unto  his  marble  home, 
Lit  by  the  wan  light  of  the  horned  moon, 
The  swift  and  silent  lizard  of  the  stones  ! 

But  stay  !  these  walls,  these  ivy-clad  arcades. 
These     mouldering      plinths,     these      sad      and 

blackened  shafts, 
These  vague  entablatures,  this  crumbling  frieze. 
These  shattered  cornices,  this  wreck,  this  ruin, 
These    stones,— alas !     these     gray    stones,— are 

they  all. 
All  of  the  famed  and  the  colossal  left 
By  the  corrosive  hours  to  fate  and  me  ? 
"  Not  all,"  the  echoes  answer  me,—"  not  all ! 
Prophetic  sounds  and  loud  arise  forever 
From  us  and  from  all  ruin  unto  the  wise. 
As  melody  from  Memnon  to  the  sun. 
We  rule  the  hearts  of  mightiest  men,  we  rule 
With  a  despotic  sway  all  giant  minds. 
We  are  not  impotent,— we  pallid  stones. 
Not  all  our  power  is  gone,  not  all  our  f?ime, 
Not  all  the  magic  of  our  high  renown, 
Not  all  the  wonder  that  encircles  us. 
Not  all  the  mysteries  that  in  us  lie. 
Not  all  the  memories  that  hang  upon 
And  cling  around  about  us  as  a  garment, 
Clothing  us  in  a  robe  of  more  than  glory." 

Edsfir  Allan  Poe 


BATHS  OF  DIOCLETIAN     275 

ROMAN    BATHS 

THERE  were  some  Roman  baths  where  we 
spent  hours  : 
Immense  and  lonely  courts  of  rock-like  brick. 
All  overgrown  with  verdure  strong  and  thick, 
And  girding  sweet  wild  lawns  all  full  of  flowers. 
One    day,    beneath     the    turf,   green    with    the 
showers 
Of  all  the  centuries  since  Genseric, 
They  found  rich  pavements  hidden  by  Time's 
trick. 

Adorned  >^ith  tritons,  dolphins,  doves  like  ours. 
So,  underneath  the  surface  of  To-day, 

Lies  Yesterday,  and  what  we  call  the  Past, 
The  only  thing  which  never  can  decay. 

Things  bygone  are  the  only  things  that  last  : 
The  Present  is  mere  grass,  quick-mown  away ; 

The  Past  is  stone,  and  stands  forever  fast. 

Eugene  Lee- Hamilton 

BIRDS   IN   THE   BATHS  OF   DIOCLETIAN 

EGERIAN  warbler!  unseen  rhapsodist ! 
Whose  carols  antedate  the   Roman  spring; 
^^ho,  while   the  old  gray   walls,  thy   playmates, 

ring. 
Dost  evermore  on  one  deep  strain  insist ; 
Flinging  thy  bell-notes  through  the  sunset  mist  I 
Touched    by  thy    song    rich   weeds   and  wall- 
flowers swing 
As  in  a  breeze,  the  twilight  crimsoning 
That  sucks  from  them  aerial  amethyst, — 


11^ 

r 

: 


Ii 


276  SKIES   ITALIAN 

O  for  a  sibyl's  insight  to  reveal 

That  lore  thou  sing'st  of!     Shall   I   guess  it? 

nay  ! 
Enough  to  hear  thy  strain,— enough  to  feel 
O'er  all  the  extended  soul  the  freshness  steal 
Of  those  ambrosial  honeydews  that  weigh 
Down  with  sweet  force  the  azure  lids  of  day. 

Anhrey  de  fere 


THE    ARCH    OF   TITUS 

I  STOOD  beneath  the  arch  of  Titus  long  ; 
On   Hebrew   forms   there   sculptured   long    1 

pored ; 
Till  fancy,  by  a  distant  clarion  stung, 
Woke ;   and  raethought  there  moved    that   arch 

toward 
A  Roman  triumph.     Lance  and  helm  and  sword 
Glittered;  white  coursers  tramped  and  trum- 
pets rung  : 
Last  came,  car-borne  amid  a  captive  throng, 
The  laurelled  son  of  Rome's  imperial  lord. 
As  though  by  wings  of  unseen  eagles  fanned, 
The  Conqueror's  cheek,  when  first  that  arch  he 

saw, 
Burned  with  the  flush  he  strove  in  vain  to 

quell. 
Titus  !  a  loftier  arch  than  thine  hath  spanned 
Rome  and  the  world  with  empery  and  law ; 
Thereof  each  stone  was  hewn  from  Israel  ! 

Anhrey  de  Fere 


..x 


CECILIA  METELLA'S  TOMB  277 


THE   APPIAN   WAY 


AWE-STRUCK  I  gazed  upon  that  rock-paved 
way. 
The  Appian  Road ;  marmorean  witness  still 
Of  Rome's  resistless  stride  and  fateful  will, 
Which  mocked  at  limits,  opening  out  for  aye 
Divergent  paths  to  one  imperial  sway. 
The  nations  verily  their  parts  fulfil ; 
And    war  must    plough    the    fields    which   law 
shall  till  ; 
Therefore  Rome  triumphed  till  the  appointed  day. 
Then  from  the  Catacombs,  like  waves,  upburst 
The  host  of  God,  and  scaled,  as  in  an  hour. 
O'er  all  the  earth  the  mountain-seats  of  power. 
Gladly  in  that  baptismal  flood  immersed 

The  old  Empire  died  to  live.     Once  more  on 

high 
It  sits  ;  now  clothed  with  immortality  ! 

Aubrey  de  Vere 


THE  TOMB   OF   CECILIA   METELLA 

STOP  on  the  Appian  Way, 
In  the  Roman  Campania. 
Stop  at  my  tomb. 
The  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella  : 
To-day,  as  you  see  it, 
Alaric  saw  it  ages  ago 
When  he,  with  his  pale-visaged  Goths, 
Sat  at  the  gates  of  Rome, 
Reading  his  Runic  shield. 
Odin  !  thy  curse  remains. 


278 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


Beneath  these  battlements 

My  bones  were  stirred  with  Roman  pride, 

Though  centuries  before  my  Romans  died. 

Now  my  bones  are  dust,  the  Goths  are  dust, 

The  river-bed  is  dry  where  sleeps  the  king  : 

My  tomb  remains. 

When  Rome  commanded  the  earth. 

Great  were  the  Metelli. 

I  was  Metella's  wife  : 

I  loved  him, — and  I  died. 

Then  with  slow  patience  built  he  this  memorial. 

Each  century  marks  his  love. 

Pass  by  on  the  Appian  Way 

The  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella  : 

Wild  shepherds  alone  seek  its  shelter, 

Wild  buffaloes  tramp  at  its  base,— 

Deep  is  its  desolation, 

Deep  as  the  shadow  of  Rome. 

Mrs  R.  H.  Stoddard 

GROTTO   OF   EGERIA 

EGERIA  !  sweet  creation  of  some  heart 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so 

fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast ;  what'er  thou  art 
Or  wert, — a  young  Aurora  of  the  air. 
The  nympholepsy  of  some  fond  despair ; 
Or,  it  might  be,  a  beauty  of  the  earth. 
Who  found  a  more  than  common  votary  there 
Too  much  adoring,— whatsoe'er  thy  birth. 
Thou  wert  a  beautiful  thought,  and  softly  bodied 
forth. 


GROTTO   OF   EGERIA    279 

The  mosses  of  thy  fountain  still  are  sprinkled 

With  thine  Elysian  water-drops :  the  face 

Of  thy  cave-guarded   spring,    with   years    un- 

wrinkled, 
Reflects  the  meek-eyed  genius  of  the  place. 
Whose  green,  wild  margin  now  no  more  erase 
Art's  works  ;  nor  must  the  delicate  waters  sleep, 
Prisoned  in  marble,  bubbling  from  the  base 
Of  the  cleft  statue,  with  a  gentle  leap 
The  rill  runs  o'er,  and  round,  fern,  flowers,  and 
ivy  creep, 

Fantastically  tangled ;  the  green  hills 

Are  clothed  with  early  blossoms,  through  the 

grass 
The  quick-eyed  lizard  rustles,  and  the  bills 
Of  summer  birds  sing  welcome  as  ye  pass  ; 
Flowers  fresh  in  hue,  and  many  in  their  class. 
Implore  the  pausing  step,  and  with  their  dyes 
Dance  in  the  soft  breeze  in  a  fairy  mass  ; 
The  sweetness  of  the  violet's  deep  blue  eyes. 
Kissed  by  the  breath   of  heaven,  seem  coloured 
by  its  skies. 

Here    didst    thou    dwell,    in    this    enchanted 

cover, 
Egeria  !  thy  all-heavenly  bosom  beating 
For  the  far  footsteps  of  thy  mortal  lover ; 
The  purple  midnight  veiled  that  mystic  meeting 
With  her  most  starry  canopy,  and,  seating 
Thyself  by  thine  adorer,  what  befell  ? 
This  cave  was  surely  shaped  out  for  the  greeting 
Of  an  enamoured  goddess,  and  the  cell 
Haunted  by  holy  love, — the  earliest  oracle  ! 

Lord  Byron 


\i 


i 


280  SKIES    ITALIAN 


RUINS   OF   CORNELIA'S    HOUSE 

I  TURN  from  ruins  of  imperial  power, 
Tombs  of  corrupt  delight,  old  walls  the  pride 
Of  statesmen  pleased  for  respite  brief  to  hide 
Their  laurelled  foreheads  in  the  Muses'  bower, 
And  seek  Cornelia's  home.     At  sunset's  hour 
How  oft  her  eyes,  that  wept  no  more,  descried 
Yon  purpHng  hills  !  How  oft  she  heard  that  tide 
Fretting  as  now  low  cave  or  hollow  tower! 
The  mother  of  the  Gracchi !  Scipio's  child  ! — 
'Twas  virtue  such  as  hers  that  built  her  Rome ! 
Never  towards  it  she  gazed  !     Far  off  her  home 
She  made,  like  her  great  father  self-exiled. 
Woe  to  the  nations  when  the  souls  they  bare, 
Their  best  and  bravest,  choose  their  rest  else- 
where ! 

Aubrey  de  Fere 


THE  CAMPAGNA  SEEN  FROM    ST   JOHN 

LATERAN 

WAS  it  the  trampling  of  triumphant  hosts 
That  levelled  thus  yon  plain,  sea-like  and 
hoary  ; 
Armies  from  Rome  sent  forth  to  distant  coasts. 
Or  back  returning  clad  with  spoils  of  glory  ? 
Around  it  loom  cape,  ridge,  and  promontory 
Above  it  sunset  shadows  fleet  like  ghosts. 
Fast-borne  o'er  keep  and  tomb,   whose  ancient 
boasts. 
By  Time  confuted,  name  have  none  in  story. 


TWO  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA  281 

Fit  seat  for  Rome !  for  here  is  ample  space. 

Which  greatness  chiefly  needs, — severed  alone 
By  yonder  aqueducts,  with  queenly  grace 
That  sweeps  in  curves  concentric  ever  on 
(Bridging  a  world  subjected  as  a  chart) 
To  that  great  city,  head  of  earth,  and  heart. 

Aubrey  de  Fere 


TWO   IN   THE   CAMPAGNA 

I   WONDER  do  you  feel  to-day 
As  I  have  felt  since,  hand  in  hand, 
We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 
This  mom  of  Rome  and  May  .'* 

For  me,  I  touched  a  thought,  I  know. 

Has  tantalized  me  many  times, 
(Like  turns  of  thread  the  spiders  throw 

Mocking  across  our  path)  for  rhymes 
To  catch  at  and  let  go. 

Help  me  to  hold  it !     First  it  left 
The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 

There,  branching  from  the  brickwork's  cleft. 
Some  old  tomb's  ruin  :  yonder  weed 

Took  up  the  floating  weft, 

W'here  one  small  orange  cup  amassed 

Five  beetles, — blind  and  green  they  grope 

Among  the  honey-meal  :  and  last. 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope 

I  traced  it.     Hold  it  fast ! 


282  SKIES    ITALIAN 

The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 
Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere  ! 

Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 
An  everlasting  wash  of  air — 

Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 

Such  life  here,  through  such  lengths  of  hours, 
Such  miracles  performed  in  play, 

Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers. 
Such  letting  nature  have  her  way 

While  heaven  looks  from  its  towers  ! 

How^  say  you  ?     Let  us,  O  my  dove. 

Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul. 
As  earth  lies  bare  to  heaven  above  ! 

How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love  ? 

I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 
You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more. 

Nor  yours  nor  mine,  nor  slave  nor  free  ! 
Where  does  the  fault  lie  ?     What  the  core 

C  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be  ? 

I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will. 

See  with  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 

Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 

At  your  soul's  springs,— your  part  my  part 

In  life,  for  good  and  ill. 

No.     I  yearn  upward,  touch  you  close. 
Then  stand  away.      I  kiss  your  cheek. 

Catch  your  soul's  warmth, — I  pluck  the  rose 
And  love  it  more  than  tongue  can  speak — 

Then  the  good  minute  goes. 


SPRING  ON  ALBAN  HILLS    283 

Already  how  am  I  so  far 

Out  of  that  minute  ?     Must  I  go 

Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar, 

Onward,  whenever  light  winds  blow, 

Fixed  by  no  friendly  star  ? 

Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  leani  I 
Where  is  the  thread  now  ?     Off  again ! 

The  old  trick  !     Only  I  discern — 
Infinite  passion,  and  the  pain 

Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn. 

Robert  Browning 


SPRING   ON   THE   ALBAN    HILLS 

O'ER  the  Campagna  it  is  dim  warm  weather ; 
The  Spring  comes  with  a  full  heart  silently. 
And  many  thoughts  :  a  faint  flash  of  the  sea 
Divides    two    mists:    straight    falls    the    falling 

feather. 
With     wild     Spring     meanings     hill     and     plain 
together 
Grow  pale,  or  just  flush  with  a  dust  of  flowers. 
Rome  in  the  ages,  dimmed  with  all  her  towers. 
Floats  in  the  midst,  a  little  cloud  at  tether. 

I  fain  would  put  my  hands  about  thy  face. 

Thou  with  thy  thoughts,  who  art  another  Spring, 

And  draw  thee  to  me  like  a  mournful  child. 

Thou  lookest  on  me  from  another  place ; 

I  touch  not  this  day's  secret,  nor  the  thing 

That  in  the  silence  makes  thy  sweet  eyes 

wild. 

Alice  Meynell 


284 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


NEMI 

**  Nemi,  imbedded  in  wood,  Nemi,  inurned  in  the  hill." 

dough 

FROM  lone  Castello's  torrid  shore, 
Here,  Nemi,  to  thy  shrine. 
Where  Thyrsis  wandering  came  of  yore, 
I  come  to  make  thee  mine ; 
With  myrtle  sweet  and  eglantine, 
O  lake,  beloved  for  evermore, 

Take  thou  my  soul,  and  yield  me  thine. 

Spirit  of  Beauty  !  is  it  here. 

Secluded  and  alone. 
Thou  dwellest  by  these  waters  clear. 

These  Alban  hills  thy  throne  } 

Here  still,  unwitnessed  and  unknown, 
To  thee  we  kneel,  and  thee  revere. 

And  thine  all-hallowing  presence  own. 
•  ••••• 

Nay,  closer  now  !  nay,  closer  yet ! 

Would  my  soul  cleave  to  thine ; 
Here  by  thy  mantling  beauty  met. 

Transfigured,  made  divine  ; — 

Here  as  of  old  in  Palestine 
Love  is  the  true  heart's  amulet, 

And  joy  of  love  the  sacred  sign. 

Back  to  Albano,  back  to  Rome, 

We  go,  but  still  with  thee, 
O  lake,  of  love-lit  dreams  the  home. 

Our  thoughts,  our  heart  shall  be ; 

And  still,  far  off,  we  yet  shall  see 
Beneath  the  Night's  star-spangled  dome 

Thy  grove-encircled  sanctuary. 

Samuel  IVaddifigton 


MONTE   CASSINO         285 


MONTE   CASSINO 

(Terra  di  Lavoro) 

BEAUTIFUL  valley  !  through  whose  verdant 
meads 
Unheard  the  Garigliano  glides  along ; — 
The  Liris,  nurse  of  rushes  and  of  reeds. 
The  river  taciturn  of  classic  song. 

The  Land  of  Labour  and  the  Land  of  Rest, 
Where  mediaeval  towns  are  white  on  all 

The  hillsides,  and  where  every  mountain's  crest 
Is  an  Etrurian  or  a  Roman  wall. 

There  is  Alagna,  where  Pope  Boniface 

Was  dragged  with  contumely  from  his  throne ; 

Sciarra  Colonna,  was  that  day's  disgrace 
The  Pontiff's  only,  or  in  part  thine  own  ? 

There  is  Ceprano,  where  a  renegade 

Was  each  Apulian,  as  great  Dante  saith. 

When  Manfred  by  his  men-at-arms 

Spurred  on  to  Benevento  and  to  death. 

There  is  Aquinum,  the  old  Volscian  town, 
Where  Juvenal  was  born,  whose  lurid  light 

Still  hovers  o'er  his  birthi)lace  like  the  crown 
Of  splendour  seen  o'er  cities  in  the  night. 


Doubled  the  splendour  is,  that  in  its  streets 
The  Angelic  Doctor  as  a  school-boy  played. 

And    dreamed    perhaps    the    dreams,    that 
repeats 
In  ponderous  folios  for  scholastics  made. 


he 


286 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


And  there,  uplifted,  like  a  passing  cloud 
That  pauses  on  a  mountain  summit  high, 

Monte  Cassino's  convent  rears  its  proud 
And  venerable  walls  against  the  sky. 

Well  I  remember  how  on  foot  I  climbed 
The  stony  pathway  leading  to  its  gate  ; 

Above,  the  convent  bells  for  vespers  chimed, 
Below,  the  darkening  town  grew  desolate. 

Well  I  remember  the  low  arch  and  dark, 

The  courtyard  with  its  well,  the  terrace  wide, 

From  which,  far  down,  the  valley  like  a  park 
Veiled  in  the  evening  mists,  was  dim  descried. 

The  day  was  dying,  and  with  feeble  hands 

Caressed  the  mountain-tops  ;  the  vales  between 

Darkened  ;  the  river  in  tlie  meadow-lands 
Sheathed  itself  as  a  sword,  and  was  not  seen. 

The  silence  of  the  place  was  like  a  sleep. 

So  full  of  rest  it  seemed  :   each  passing  tread 

Was  a  reverberation  from  the  deep 
Recesses  of  the  ages  that  are  dead. 

For,  more  than  thirteen  centuries  ago, 
Benedict  Heeing  from  the  gates  of  Rome, 

A  youth  disgusted  with  its  vice  and  woe. 
Sought  in  these  mountain  solitudes  a  home. 

He  founded  here  his  Convent  and  his  Rule 

Of  prayer   and    work,   and    counted    work    as 
prayer ; 

The  pen  became  a  clarion,  and  his  school 
Flamed  like  a  beacon  in  the  midnight  air. 


MONTE    CASSINO  287 

What  though  Boccaccio,  in  his  reckless  way. 
Mocking  the  lazy  brotherhood,  deplores 

The  illuminated  manuscripj;s,  that  lay 
Torn  and  neglected  on  the  dusty  floors  ? 

Boccaccio  was  a  novelist,  a  child 

Of  fancy  and  of  fiction  at  the  best ! 
This  the  urbane  librarian  said,  and  smiled 

Incredulous,  at  some  idle  jest. 

Upon  such  themes  as  these,  with  one  young  friar 
I  sat  conversing  late  into  the  night. 

Till  in  its  cavernous  chimney  the  wood-fire 
Had  burnt  its  heart  out  like  an  anchorite. 

And  then  translated,  in  my  convent  cell. 
Myself  yet  not  myself,  in  dreams  I  lay, 

And,  as  a  monk  who  hears  the  matin  bell, 
Started  from  sleep  ;  already  it  was  day. 

From  the  high  window  I  beheld  the  scene 
On  which  Saint  Benedict  so  oft  had  gazed, — 

The  mountains  and  the  valley  in  the  sheen 
Of  the  bright  sun, — and  stood  as  one  amazed. 

Oray  mists  were  rolling,  rising,  vanishing  ; 

The  woodlands  glistened  with   their  jewelled 
crowns  ; 
Far  off  the  mellow  bells  began  to  ring 

For  matins  in  the  half-awakened  towns. 

The  conflict  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
The  ideal  and  the  actual  in  our  life. 

As  on  a  field  of  battle  held  me  fast. 

Where  this  world  and  the  next  world  were  at 
strife. 


I 


288  SKIES    ITALIAN 

For,  as  the  valley  from  its  sleep  awoke, 
I  saw  the  iron  horses  of  the  steam 

Toss  to  the  morning  air  their  plumes  of  smoke, 
And  woke,  as  one  awaketh  from  a  dream. 
Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


LOVE   AMONG   THE   RUINS 

WHERE  the  quiet-coloured  end  of  evening 
smiles 
Miles  and  miles 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle  homeward  through  the  twilight,  stray  or 

stop 

As  they  cro|) — 

Was  tiie  site  once  of  a  city  great  and  gay, 

(So  they  say) 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince 

Ages  since 
Held  his  court  in,  gathered  councils,  wielding  far 

Peace  or  war. 

\ow,— the  country  does  not  even  boast  a  tree, 

As  you  see, 
To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  certain  rills 

From  the  hills 
Intersect  and  give  a  name  to,  (else  they  run 

Into  one,) 

Where  the   domed   and   daring  palace   shot   its 

spires 

Up  like  fires 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS   289 

O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all. 
Made  of  marble,  men   might  march   on   nor  be 
prest. 

Twelve  abreast. 

And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see,  of  grass 

Never  was ! 
Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time,  o'erspreads 

And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone. 

Stock  or  stone — 

Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy  and  woe 

Long  ago ; 
Lust  of  glory  pricked  their  hearts  up,  dread  of 
shame 

Struck  them  tame ; 
And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the  gold 

Bought  and  sold. 

Now, — the  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains. 
By  the  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored, 
While  the  patching  houseleek's  head  of  blossom 
winks 

Through  the  chinks — 

Marks  the  basementwhencea  tower  inancient  time 

Sprang  sublime. 
And  a  burning  ring,  all  round,  the  chariots  traced 

As  they  raced. 
And  the  monarch  and  his  minions  and  his  dames 

Viewed  the  games. 
T 


II 


290  SKIES    ITALIAN 

And  I  know,  while  thus  the  quiet  coloured  eve 

Smiles  to  leave 
To  their  folding,  all  our  many-tinkling  fleece 

In  such  peace, 
And  the  slopes  and  rills  in  undistinguished  gray 

Melt  away — 

That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair 

Waits  me  there 
In  the  turret  whence  the  charioteers  caught  soul 

For  the  goal, 
When    the  king  looked,  where  she  looks  now, 
breathless,  dumb 

Till  I  come. 

But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide, 
All  the  mountains  topped  with  temples,  all  the 

glades' 

Colonnades, 
All  the  causeys,  bridges,  aqueducts,— and  then. 
All  the  men ! 

When   I   do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she  will 

stand. 

Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first  embrace 

Of  my  face, 
Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  and  speech 

Each  on  each. 

In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters  forth 

South  and  North, 
And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar  high 

As  the  sky, 


AT  TIBER   MOUTH       291 

Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full  force — 
Gold,  of  course. 

Oh  heart !  oh  blood  that  freezes,  blood  that  bums  ! 

Earth's  returns 
For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and  sin  ! 

Shut  them  in. 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest ! 

Love  is  best. 

Robert  Brorvnijig 

AT   TIBER    MOUTH 

{Rome,  1881) 

THE  low   plains  stretch  to  the  west  with  a 
glimmer  of  rustling  weeds, 
Where  the  waves  of  a  golden  river  wind  home  by 

the  marshy  meads  ; 
And  the  strong  wind  born  of  the  sea  grows  faint 

with  a  sickly  breath, 
As  it  stays  in  the  fretting  rushes  and  blows  on 

the  dews  of  death. 
We  came  to  the  silent  city  in  the  blaze  of  the 

noontide  heat. 
When  the  sound  of  a  whisper  rang  through  the 

length  of  the  lonely  street ; 
No  tree  in  the  clefted  ruin,  no  echo  of  song  nor 

sound, 
But  the  dust  of  a  world  forgotten  lay  under  the 

barren  ground. 
There  are  shrines  under  these  green  hillocks  to 

the  beautiful  gods  that  sleep. 
Where  they  prayed  in  the  stormy  season  for  lives 

gone  out  on  the  deep ; 


292  SKIES   ITALIAN 

And   here    in    the    grave    street    sculptured,   old 

record  of  loves  and  tears, 
By  the  dust  of  the  nameless  slave,  forgotten  a 

thousand  years. 
Not  ever  again  at  even  shall  ship  sail  in  on  the 

hreeze 
Where    the    hulls   of  their  gilded    galleys   came 

home  from  a  hundred  seas, 
For  the    marsh    plants   grow  in    her  haven,  the 

marsh  birds  breed  in  her  bay. 
And  a  mile  to  the  shoreless  westward  the  water 

has  passed  away. 
But  the  sea-folk  gathering  rushes  come  up  from 

the  windy  shore, 
So  the  song  that  the  years  have  silenced  grows 

musical  there  once  more  ; 
And   now    and    again    unburied,    like    some    still 

voice  from  the  dead, 
They  light  on  the  fallen  shoulder  and  the  lines  of 

a  marble  head. 
But  we  went  from  the  sorrowful  city  and  wandered 

away  at  will. 
And  thought  of  the   breathing   marble   and  the 

words  that  are  music  still. 
How  full  were  their  lives  that  laboured,  in  their 

fetterless  strength  and  far 
From  the  ways  that  our  feet  have  chosen  as  the 

sunlight  is  from  the  star, 
They  clung  to  the  chance  and  promise  that  once 

while  the  years  are  free, 
Look  over  our  life's  horizon  as  the  sun  looks  over 

the  sea, 
But  we  wait  for  a  day  that  dawns  not,  and  cry  for 

unclouded  skies. 


AT  TIBER  MOUTH        293 

And  while  we  are  deep  in  dreaming  the  light  that 

was  o'er  us  dies ; 
We  know  not  what  of  the  present  we  shall  stretch 

out  our  hands  to  save 
Who  sing  of  the  life  we  long  for,  and  not  of  the 

life  we  have  ; 
And  vet  if  the  chance  were  with  us  to  gather  the 

days  misspent. 
Should    we   change    the   old   resting-places,   the 

wandering  ways  we  went } 
They  were  strong,  but  the  years  are  stronger; 

they  are  grown  but  a  name  that  thrills, 
And  the  wreck  of  their  marble  glory  lies  ghost- 
like over  their  hills. 
So  a  shadow  fell  o'er  our  dreaming  for  the  weary 

heart  of  the  past. 
For  the  seed  that   the  years  have  scattered,  to 

reap  so  little  at  last. 
And  we  went  to  the  sea-shore  forest,  through  a 

long  colonnade  of  pines. 
Where   the   skies    peep   in  and    the  sea,  with  a 

Hitting  of  silver  lines. 
And  we  came  on  an  open  place  in  the  green  deep 

heart  of  the  wood. 
Where  I  think  in  the  years  forgotten,  an  altar  of 

Faunus  stood ; 
From  a  spring  in  the  long  dark  grasses  two  rivulets 

rise  and  run 
By  the  length  of  their  sandy  borders  where  the 

snake  lies  coiled  in  the  sun. 
And  the  stars  of  the  white  narcissus  lie  over  the 

grass  like  snow, 
And  beyond  in  the  shadowy  places  the  crimson 

cyclamens  grow. 


294  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Far  up  from  the  wave  home  yonder  the  sea-winds 
murmuring  pass, 

The   branches    quiver  and   creak  and   the   lizard 
starts  in  the  grass. 

And  we  lay  in  the  untrod  moss  and  pillowed  our 
cheeks  with  flowers, 

While  the  sun  went  over  our  heads,  and  we  took 
no  count  of  the  hours  ; 

From  the  end  of  the  waving  branches  and  under 
the  cloudless  blue. 

Like  sunbeams  chained  for  a  banner,  the  thread- 
like gossamers  flew. 

And  the  joy  of  the  woods  came  o'er  us,  and   we 
felt  that  our  world  was  young 

With    the   gladness   of  years   unspent,   and    the 
sorrow  of  life  unsung. 

So  we  passed  with  a  sound  of  singing  along  to 
the  seaward  way, 

Where  the  sails  of  the  fishermen  folk  came  home- 
ward over  the  bay  ; 

For  a  cloud  grew  over  the  forest,  and  darkened 

the  sea-god's  shrine. 
And  the  hills  of  the  silent  city  were  only  a  ruby 

line. 
But  the  sun  stood  still  on  the  waves  as  we  passed 

from  the  fading  shores, 
And  shone  on  our  boat's  red  bulwarks,  and  the 

golden  blades  of  the  oars  ; 
And  it  seemed  as  we  steered  for  the  sunset  that 

we  passed  through  a  twilit  sea. 
From  the  gloom  of  a  world  forgotten  to  the  light 

of  a  world  to  be. 

Sir  Rennell  Rodd 


TIVOLI 


295 


ROMAN    VILLEGGIATURA 

ALL  shun  the  raging  dog-star's  sultry  heat. 
And  from  the  half-unpeopled  town  retreat ; 
Some  hid  in  Nemi's  gloomy  forests  lie ; 
To  Palestrina  some  for  shelter  fly  ; 
Others,  to  catch  the  breeze  of  breathing  air, 
To  Tusculum  or  Algido  repair. 
Or  in  moist  Tivoli's  retirements  find 
A  cooling  shade  and  a  refreshing  wind. 

Silius  Italicus, 

tr.  Joseph  Addison 

TIVOLI 

MIDST  Tivoli's  luxurious  glades, 
Bright-foaming  falls,  and  olive  shades, 
Where  dwelt,  in  days  departed  long. 
The  sons  of  battle  and  of  song. 
No  tree,  no  shrub,  its  foliage  rears  ; 
But  o'er  the  wreck  of  other  years. 
Temples  and  domes,  which  long  have  been 
The  soil  of  that  enchanted  scene. 

There  the  wild  fig-tree  and  the  vine 
O'er  Hadrian's  mouldering  villa  twine ; 
The  cypress,  in  funereal  grace, 
Usurps  the  vanished  column's  place  ; 
O'er  fallen  shrine  and  ruined  frieze  \ 

The  wall-flower  rustles  in  the  breeze  ; 
Acanthus  leaves  the  marble  hide 
They  once  adorned  in  sculptured  pride. 
And  Nature  hath  resumed  her  throne 
O'er  the  vast  works  of  ages  flown. 


296 


SKIES   ITALIAxX 


Was  it  for  this  that  many  a  pile, 
Pride  of  Ilissus  and  the  Nile, 
To  Anio's  banks  the  image  lent 
Of  each  imperial  monument  ? 
Now  Athens  weeps  her  shattered  fanes, 
Thy  temples,  Egypt,  strew  thy  plains ; 
And  the  proud  fabrics  Hadrian  reared 
From  Tiber's  vale  have  disappeared. 
We  need  no  prescient  sibyl  there 
The  doom  of  grandeur  to  declare  ; 
JEach  stone,  where^eeds  and  ivy  climb. 
Reveals  some  oracle  of  time  r 
Each  relic  utters  Fate's  decree, — 
The  future  as  the  past  shall  be. 

Halls  of  the  dead  !  in  Tiber's  vale 
Who  now  shall  tell  your  lofty  tale  ? 
Who  trace  the  high  patrician's  dome, 
The  bard's  retreat,  the  hero's  home  ? 
When  moss-clad  wrecks  alone  record 
There  dwelt  the  world's  departed  lord. 
In  scenes  where  verdure's  rich  array 
Still  sheds  young  beauty  or  decay. 
And  sunshine  on  each  glowing  hill 
Midst  ruins  finds  a  dwelling  still. 

Sunk  is  thy  palace,  but  thy  tomb, 
Hadrian  !  hath  shared  a  j)rouder  doom. 
Though  vanished  with  the  days  of  old 
Its  pillars  of  Corinthian  mould  ; 
Though  the  fair  forms  by  sculpture  wrought. 
Each  bodying  some  immortal  thought. 
Which  o'er  the  temple  of  the  dead 
Serene  but  solemn  beauty  shed. 


r» 


THE  CITY  OF  MY  LOVE    297 

Have  found,  like  glory's  self,  a  grave 
In  time's  abyss  or  Tiber's  wave  ; 
Yet  dreams  more  lofty  and  more  fair 
Than  Art's  bold  hand  hath  imaged  e'er, 
Hif'h  thoughts  of  many  a  mortal  mind 
Expanding  when  all  else  declined. 
In  twilight  years,  when  only  they 
Recalled  the  radiance  passed  away. 
Have  made  that  ancient  pile  their  home. 
Fortress  of  freedom  and  of  Rome. 

Felicia  Hemans 


THE   CITY   OF    MY    LOVE 


NC 


SHE  sits  among  the  eternal  hills. 
Their  crown,  thrice  glorious  and  dear. 
Her  voice  is  as  a  thousand  tongues 
Of  silver  fountains,  gurgling  clear  ; 

Her  breath  is  prayer,  her  life  is  love. 
And  worship  of  all  lovely  things  ;  ^ 

Her  children  have  a  gracious  port. 
Her  beggars  show  the  blood  of  kings. 

By  old  Tradition  guarded  close, 

None  doubt  the  grandeur  she  has  seen ; 

Upon  her  venerable  front 

Is  written  :  "  I  was  born  a  Queen  ! '' 

She  rules  the  age  by  Beauty's  power, 
As  once  she  ruled  by  arm^d  might  ; 
The  Southern  sun  doth  treasure  her 
Deep  in  his  golden  heart  of  light. 


»^ 


298  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Awe  strikes  the  traveller  when  he  sees 
The  vision  of  her  distant  dome, 
And  a  stranf^e  spasm  wrings  his  heart 
As  the  guide  whispers,  "There  is  Rome ! 

Rome  of  the  Romans  !  where  the  gods 
Of  Greek  Olympus  long  held  sway  ; 
Rome  of  the  Christian,  Peter's  tomb, 
The  Zion  of  our  later  day. 

Rome,  the  mailed  Virgin  of  the  world. 
Defiance  on  her  brows  and  breast ; 
Rome,  to  voluptuous  pleasure  won, 
Debauched,  and  locked  in  drunken  rest. 

Rome,  in  her  intellectual  day, 
Europe's  intriguing  step-dame  grown  ; 
Rome,  bowed  to  weakness  and  decay, 
A  canting,  mass-frequenting  crone. 

Then  the  unlettered  man  plods  on. 
Half  chiding  at  the  spell  he  feels, 
The  artist  pauses  at  the  gate, 
And  on  the  wondrous  threshold  kneels. 

The  sick  man  lifts  his  languid  head 
For  those  soft  skies  and  balmy  airs ; 
The  pil  grim  tries  a  quicker  pace, 
And  hugs  remorse,  and  patters  prayers. 

For  even  the  grass  that  feeds  the  herds 
Methinks  some  unknown  virtue  yields ; 
The  very  hinds  in  reverence  tread 
The  precincts  of  the  ancient  fields. 


ROME 


299 


But  wrapt  in  gloom  of  night  and  death, 
I  crept  to  thee,  dear  mother  Rome  ; 
And  in  thy  hospitable  heart 
Found  rest  and  comfort,  health  and  home. 

And  friendships,  warm  and  living  still. 
Although  their  dearest  joys  are  fled  ; 
True  sympathies,  that  bring  to  life 
That  better  self,  so  often  dead. 

For  all  the  wonder  that  thou  wert. 
For  all  the  dear  delight  thou  art. 
Accept  a  homage  from  my  lips. 
That  warms  again  a  wasted  heart. 

And,  though  it  seem  a  childish  prayer, 
I've  breathed  it  oft,  that  when  I  die, 
As  thy  remembrance  dear  in  it, 
That  heart  in  thee  might  buried  lie. 

Julia  Ward  Howe 


ROME 

"  T  F  ever  I  in  Rome  should  dwell, — 
1  Rome,  the  desired  of  all  my  heart, — 

Amidst  that  world  loved  long  and  well, 
The  infinite  world  of  ancient  art ; 

*^  And  there,  by  graves  so  dear  to  fame, 
A  dreaming  poet,  cast  my  lot ; 

What  voice  within  would  whisper  shame. 
Were  England  and  her  needs  forgot !  " 


300 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


So  to  myself,  with  museful  mouth, 
I  said  long  since,  the  while  I  paced, 

With  heart  that  trembled  towards  the  south. 
Through  London's  coiled  and  stony  waste. 

How  doubly  dreary  seemed  the  smoke, 
The  sunless  noon,  the  starless  even, 

When  o'er  my  dream  a  vision  broke, — 
Italy  !  or  the  courts  of  Heaven  ! 

Now,  walking  on  this  Pincian  Hill, 
And  watching  where  the  day  declines 

(Gilding  the  Cross  of  Peter  still) 
By  Monte  Mario's  fringe  of  pines. 

Almost,  I  think,  the  heart  might  grow 

Forgetful  of  its  earlier  ties. 
And  all  its  life-blood  learn  to  flow 

Familiar  with  Italian  skies. 

Not  with  the  love  of  brain  or  soul. 
But  with  that  fiery  strength  we  use 

In  leaning  towards  the  strong  control 
Of  what  we  must,  not  what  we  choose. 

As  mother  for  child,  as  wife  for  spouse. 
As  one  long  exiled  yearns  for  home, 

As  sinner  for  the  Heavenly  House, 
So  yearned,  so  loved  I  thee,  O  Rome ! 

Now  I  have  seen  thee, — seen  the  plains, 
The  desolate  plains  where  thou  dost  lie ; 

W^here  many  a  rock-built  tomb  complains 
Of  some  great  name  or  race  gone  by, 


ROME  301 

And  past  the  walls  that  round  thee  sweep 
Have  daily  ridden,— walls  sublime  ! 

Which  girdle  in  thy  power,  and  keep 
Inviolate  from  the  hands  of  Time. 

Just  touched  and  softened  by  decay. 

Each  gate  some  glorious  year  recalls  ; 
Kings!    Consuls!    Emperors!    Saints!    were 

they 
Who  mile  by  mile  linked  walls  to  walls. 

All  ancient  cities,  though  great  they  be 
(And  London  counts  by  tens  of  tens). 

Seem  pygmy  towns  compared  to  thee ; 
While  Lincoln,  throned  amidst  her  fens. 

And  York  upon  her  meadow-side 

(A  thousand  milestones  on  her  road), 

Are  footprints,  just  to  show  the  stride 
With  which  the  giant  C«sar  strode  ! 

Yet  here,  where  Caesar  lies  in  state. 
Amidst  the  cypress  and  the  rose, 

A  lovelier  mountain  mourns  his  fate, 
A  nobler  river  swiftlier  flows. 

0  starlit  streets  of  ancient  Rome, 
Baptized  in  blood  of  Christian  men  I 

Happy  the  hearts  that  call  ye  home. 
And  feet  that  toward  ye  turn  again ! 

1  oft  in  dreams  shall  seem  to  see 

Hills  where  the  olive  and  the  vine 
Fall  rippling  down  to  meet  the  sea ; 
Or  underneath  the  branching  pine 


:1-| 


302  SKIES    ITATJAN 

Shall  watch  the  storm-clouds  sweeping  by, 
Down  from  the  Alban  Mount  in  swirls, 

And,  blackening  all  the  vaulted  sky, 

Rush  tangling  through  our  sculptor's  curls. 

Ah  !  not  too  distant  fall  that  day 
When  I,  a  pilgrim  far  from  home, 

Shall  hear  upon  the  Aurelian  Way, 
**  A I  Ions  f  postilion,  vite  !  a  Rome." 

Bessie  Rayner  Parkes 


THE    FOUNTAIN   OF   TREVI 

THE  Coliseum  lifts  at  night 
Its  broken  cells  more  proudly  far 
Than  in  the  noonday's  naked  light. 
For  every  rent  enshrines  a  star : 
On  Casar's  hill  the  royal  Lar 
Presides  within  his  mansion  old : 

Decay  and  Death  no  longer  mar 
The  moon's  atoning  mist  of  gold. 

Still  lingering  near  the  shrines  renewed, 

We  sadly,  fondly,  look  our  last ; 
Each  trace  concealed  of  spoilage  rude 

From  old  or  late  iconoclast. 

Till,  Trajan's  whispering  forum  passed, 
We  hear  the  waters,  showering  bright, 

Of  Trevi's  ancient  fountain,  cast 
Their  woven  music  on  the  night. 

The  Genius  of  the  Tiber  nods 

Benign,  above  his  tilted  urn : 
Kneel  down  and  drink  !  the  beckoning  gods 

This  last  libation  will  not  spurn. 


ROME  303 

Drink,  and  the  old  enchantment  learn 
That  hovers  yet  o'er  Trevi's  foam, — 

The  promise  of  a  sure  return, 
Fresh  footsteps  in  the  dust  of  Rome ! 

Kneel  down  and  drink  !  the  golden  days 

Here  lived  and  dreamed  shall  dawn  again ; 
Albano's  hill,  through  purple  haze. 

Again  shall  crown  the  Latin  plain. 

Whatever  stains  of  Time  remain. 
Left  by  the  years  that  intervene, 

Lo !  Trevi's  fount  shall  toss  its  rain 
To  wash  the  pilgrim's  forehead  clean. 

Drink,  and  depart !  for  Life  is  just ; 

She  gives  to  Faith  a  master-key 
To  ope  the  gates  of  dream  august. 

And  take  from  joys  in  memory 

The  certainty  of  joys  to  be  ; 
And  Trevi's  basins  shall  be  bare 

Ere  we  again  shall  fail  to  see 
Their  silver  in  the  Roman  air. 

Bayard  Tat/ lor 


ROME 

A  HIGH  and  naked  square,  a  lonely  palm ; 
Columns  thrown   down,  a   high   and   lonely 

tower ; 
The  tawny  river,  ominously  fouled  ; 
Cypresses  in  a  garden,  old  with  calm ; 
Two    monks   who  pass  in  white,   sandalled   and 

cowled  ; 
Empires  of  glory  in  a  narrow  hour 


it 


i 


304  SKIES    ITALIAN 

From  sunset  into  starlight,  when  the  sky 
Wakened  to  death  behind  St  Peter's  dome : 
That,  in  an  eyehd's  hfting,  you  and  I 
Will  see  whenever  any  man  says  *'  Rome." 

Arthur  Symons 


THE  SOUTH 


u 


w 


■m 


THE   SOUTH 

CAPUA 

FIRST  of  old  Oscan  towns  ! 
Prize  of  triumphs,  pearl  of  crowns  ; 
Half  a  thousand  years  have  fled, 
Since  arose  thy  royal  head, 

Splendour  of  the  Lucumoes. 

Tuscan  fortress,  doomed  to  feel 
Sharpest  edge  of  Samnite  steel, 
Flashing  down  the  Liris  tide  ; 
Re-arisen,  in  richer  pride. 
Cynosure  of  Italy  ! 

Let  the  Gaurian  echoes  say 
How,  with  Rome,  we  ruled  the  fray ; 
Till  the  fatal  field  was  won 
By  the  chief  who  slew  his  son, 
'Neath  the  vines  of  Vesulus. 


Siren  city,  where  the  plain 
Glitters  twice  with  golden  grain. 
Twice  the  bowers  of  roses  blow. 
Twice  the  grapes  and  olives  flow. 
Thou  wilt  chain  the  conqueror  ; 


308  SKIES   ITALIAN 

Home  of  war-subduing  eyes, 
Shining  under  softest  skies, 
Gleaming  to  the  silver  sea, 
Liber,  Venus,  strive  for  thee, 
Empress  of  Ausonia ! 

Glorious  in  thy  martial  bloom, 
Glorious  still  in  storm  and  gloom. 
We  thy  chiefs  who  dare  to  die 
Raise  again  thy  battle-cry,— 

Charge  with  Capuan  chivalry  ' 

John  ^lchol 


■;  I 


NAPLES 

DELIGHTFUL  city  of  Parthenope, 
Still  the  soft  airs  that  fan  thee  seem  en- 
chanted; 
By    song    and    beauty    crescent    shores    still 

haunted 
Along  thy  bright  bay,  once  the  siren's  sea . 
Well  I  remember,  gazing  now  on  thee, 

The  wishful  dreams,  with  which  my  childhood 

panted. 
Of  charms,  in  volumes  of  dumb  Latin  vaunted , 

Or  vowelled  in  rich  Italian  melody. 
From  Capri's  rocky  isle,  where  ruins  gray 

The  memory  of  the  first  proud  Caesars  rear 
To  where  Misenus  overlooks  the  bay,— 

Rome's  galley-navy  used  to  anchor  near,— 
The  shades  of  yore,  the  lights  of  yesterday, 

Hallow  each  wall  and  wave  and  headland  here. 

William  Gibson 


STANZAS 


309 


STANZAS 


{Written  in  Dejection^  near  Naples) 


/ 


THE  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear. 
The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  might. 
The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light. 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds  ; 

Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight. 
The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods. 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 


II 


I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  seaweeds  strown  ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore. 

Like  lights  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown  : 

I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone. 
The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 

Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion. 
How   sweet !    did   any    heart   now  share  in   my 
emotion. 


Ill 


Alas !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health. 
Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around. 

Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 
The  sage  in  meditation  found. 


310  SKIES    ITALIAN 

And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned— 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 

Others  I  see  whom  these  surround  ; — 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure  ;— 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

IV 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are  ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child. 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne  and  yet  must  bear. 
Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 

And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 


Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold. 

As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone. 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan  ; 

They  might  lament— for  I  am  one 
Whom  men  love  not,— and  yet  regret. 

Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 
Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 
Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in  memory 

yet. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


VIRGIL'S   TOMB  311 

THE   SIBYL'S    CAVE   AT   CUMAE 

CUMEAN  Sibyl !  from  thy  sultry  cave 
Thy  dark    eyes   level   with    the    sulphurous 

ground 
Through  the  gloom  flashing,  roll  in  wrath  around. 
What  see  they?     Coasts  perpetual  earthquakes 

pave 
With  ruin  ;  piles  half  buried  in  the  wave  ; 

Wrecks  of  old  times  and  new  in  lava  drowned  ;— 
And  festive   crowds,    sin-steeped  and    myrtle- 
crowned  ; 
Like  idiots  dancing  on  a  parent's  grave. 
And  they  foresee.     Those  pallid  lips  with  pain 
Suppress  their  thrilling  whispers.     Sibyl,  spare ! 
Could  Wisdom's  voice  divide  yon  sea,  or  rear 
A  new  Vesuvius  from  its  flaming  plane. 

Futile  the  warning  !     Power  despised  !  forbear 
To  deepen  guilt  by  counsel  breathed  in  vain  ! 

Aubrey  de  Fere 

VIRGIL'S   TOMB 

WE  seek,  as  twilight  saddens  into  gloom, 
A  poet's  sepulchre  ;  and  here  it  is,— 
The  summit  of  a  tufa  precipice. 
Ah  !  precious  every  drape  of  myrtle  bloom 
And  leaf  of  laurel  crowning  Virgil's  tomb  ! 

The  low  vault  entering,  hark  !  what  sound  is 

this? 
The  night  is  black  beneath  us  in  the  abyss. 
Through  one  damp  port  disclosed,  as  from  earth's 
womb, 


11 


III 


312  SKIES    ITALIAN 

That  rumbling  sound  appals  us  !      Through    the 

steep 
Is  hewn  Posilipo's  most  marvellous  grot ; 
And  to  the  prince  of  Roman  bards,  whose  sleep 
Is  in  this  singular  and  lonely  spot, 

Doth  a  wild  rumour  give  a  wizard's  name, 
Linking  a  tunnelled  road  to  Virgil's  fame  ! 

IVilliam  Gibson 


VIRGIL'S   TOMB 


*'Cecini  pascua,  nira,  duces, 


♦» 


ON  an  olive-crested  steep 
Hanging  o'er  the  dusty  road, 
Lieth  in  his  last  abode, 
Wrapped  in  everlasting  sleep, 

He  who  in  the  days  of  yore 

Sang  of  pastures,  sang  of  farms, 
Sang  of  heroes  and  their  arms. 

Sang  of  passion,  sang  of  war. 

When  the  lark  at  dawning  tells, 
Herald  like,  the  coming  day. 
And  along  the  dusty  way 

Comes  the  sound  of  tinkling  bells. 

Rising  to  the  tomb  aloft, 

While  some  modern  Corydon 
Drives  his  bleating  cattle  on 

From  the  stable  to  the  croft : 

Then  the  soul  of  Virgil  seems 
To  awaken  from  its  dreams, 
To  sing  again  the  melodies 


VESUVIUS 


313 


Of  which  he  often  tells,— 
The  music  of  the  birds, 
The  lowing  of  the  herds, 

The  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Robert  Cameron  Bogers 


VESUVIUS 


1 


A  WREATH  of  light-blue  vapour,  pure  and 
rare. 
Mounts,  scarcely  seen  against  the  bluer  sky, 
In  quiet  adoration,  silently, 
Till  the  faint  currents  of  the  upper  air 
Dislimn  it,  and  it  forms,  dissolving  there, 
The  dome,  as  of  a  palace,  hung  on  high 
Over  the  mountain  :  underneath  it  lie 
Vineyards  and  bays  and  cities,  white  and  fair. 
Might  we  not  think  this  beauty  would  engage 
All  living  things  unto  one  pure  delight  ? 

O,  vain  belief!,  for  here,  our  records  tell, 
RomVs  understanding  tyrant  from  men's  sight 
Hid,  as  within  a  guilty  citadel. 
The  shame  of  his  dishonourable  age. 


Ill 


II 

As  when  unto  a  mother,  having  chid 

Her    child    in    anger,    there    have    straight 
ensued 

Repentings  for  her  quick  and  angry  mood. 
Till  she  would  fain  see  all  its  traces  hid 


ir 


314  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Quite  out  of  sight,— even  so  has  Nature  bid 
Fair  flowers,  that  on  the  scarred  earth  she  has 

strewed. 
To  blossom,  and  called  up  the  taller  wood 
To  cover  what  she  ruined  and  undid. 
O,  and  her  mood  of  anger  did  not  last 

More  than  an  instant,  but  her  work  of  peace. 

Restoring  and  repairing,  comforting 
The  Earth,  her  stricken  child,  will  never  cease  : 
For   that   was    her    strange    work,    and    quickly 
past ; 
To  this  her  genial  toil  no  end  the  years  shall 

bring. 


Ill 


That  her  destroying  fury  was  with  noise 
And  sudden  uproar ;  but  far  otherwise. 
With  silent  and  with  secret  ministries. 

Her  skill  of  renovation  she  employs  ; 

For  Nature,  only  loud  when  she  destroys, 
Is  silent  when  she  fashions  ;  she  will  crowd 
The  work  of  her  destruction,  transient,  loud. 

Into  an  hour,  and  then  long  peace  enjoys. 

Yea,  every  power  that  fashions  and  upholds 

Works    silently,  —  all    things,    whose    life    is 
sure. 

Their     life     is    calm;     silent     the     light    that 

moulds 
And  colours  all  things ;  and  without  debate 
The  stars,  which  are  forever  to  endure, 

Assume  their  thrones  and  their  unquestioned 

state. 

Richard  Cheienlv  Trench 


POMPEII 


315 


il^ 


VESUVIUS 

BUT,  lo !  the  burning  mountain's  lava  cone 
Fill's  up  the  vision  !     Ever  does  it  breathe 
From  its  hot  chasms  thick  sulphur-clouds,  which 

wreathe 
Its  summit  when  the  still  air  is  unblown. 
Mid-height,    the    mount,    with     luscious    grape 
o'ergrown. 
Swarms  with  live  villages ;  while  underneath 
The  surface  do  the  no  less  live  flames  seethe 
The  Titan's  heart ;  convulsed  agony  shown 
In  quake  and  rending  of  the  solid  earth  ! 

Not  seldom,  with  a  throe  more  terrible, 
He  bursts  his  bonds,  and  blazes  armed  forth 
With  vengeance  engined  in  his  lurid  hell ! 
Beautiful  in  thy  play,  O  Spirit  of  Fire, 
Mountains  may  crush  not  thine  unconquerable 


ri  I 


ire 


William  Gibson 


POMPEII 

BRIGHT  was  the  sky  and  blue  the  sea,  when  I 
On  the  paved  causeway  of  Pompeii  stood. 
Perplexed  at  my  amazing  solitude  : 
The  silent  forum,  open  to  the  sky, 
The  empty  barracks  of  the  soldiery, 

The  stone  mills  fixed  to  grind  the  daily  food, 
The  houses  of  the  rich  and  poorer  brood, 
Bath,  temple,  theatre,  I  sauntered  by. 


>i|: 


316  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Surely,  methought,  the  folk  hath  left  its  home 

But  for  excursion  or  high  holiday ; 

And  soon  shall  I  behold  them  swarming  back, 
Like  busy  bees  that  buzz  about  their  comb. 

Or  those  gregarious  birds  whose  aery  track 

Instinctive,  nestward,  points  their  evening  way. 

Jolm  Bruce  Norton 

POMPEII 

THE  silence  there  was  what  most  haunted  me. 
Long    speechless    streets,    whose    stepping- 
stones  invite 
Feet  which  shall  never  come ;  to  left  and  right 
Gay  colonnades  and  courts,— beyond  the  glee. 
Heartless,  of  that  forgetful  Pagan  sea  ; 

On  roofless  homes  and  waiting  streets  the  light 
Lies  with  a  pathos  sorrowfuUer  than  night. 
Fancy  forbids  this  doom  of  Life  with  Death 
Wedded,  and  with  her  wand  restores  the  Life. 
The  jostling  throngs  swarm,  animate,  beneath 
The  open  shops,  and  all  the  tropic  strife 
Of  voices,  Roman,  Greek,  Barbarian,  mix.     The 
wreath 
Indolent  hangs  on  far  Vesuvius*  crest ; 
And  over  all  the  glowing  town  and  guiltless  sea, 

sweet  rest. 

Thomas  Gold  Appleton 

POMPEII 

I    TROD  old  footprints  in  their  streets,  their 
halls,— 
The  people  of  Pompeii !  and  I  heard — 

As,  along  pillared  vistas,  light  winds  stirred 
The  natural-leaved  Corinthian  capitals — 


SORRENTO 


317 


Rustlings,like  wide-waved  skirts,and  plaintive  calls 
And  answers,  as  though  gods  were  disinterred 
With  these,  their  antique  altars,  sepulchred 

Long  as  the  Csesars.     How  came  perfect  walls 

Of  fresco  thus  unroofed  ?     As  falls  the  foot 
On  rich  mosaic,  in  domestic  courts. 
The  marble  echo  with  vain  reason  sports ; 

The  Lares  are  all  too  vivid  to  be  mute ! 

Plash  on,Ofount,— they  told  me  thou  wast  dried! 
Was  thine  that  lyre,  lone  ?— Glaucus  calls  his 

William  Gibson 


=lf^^ 


Land 


SORRENTO 

SORRENTO  !     Bright  star ! 
Of  myrtle  and  vine, 
I  come  from  a  far  land 

To  kneel  at  thy  shrine  ; 
Thy  brow  wears  a  garland, 
O,  weave  one  for  mine  ! 

Her  mirror  thy  city 

Fair  finds  in  the  sea, — 
A  youth  sings  a  pretty 

Song,  tempered  with  glee,—  ^ 

The  mirth  and  the  ditty 

Are  mournful  to  me. 

Ah,  sea  boy,  how  strange  is 

The  carol  you  sing  ! 
Let  Psyche,  who  ranges 

The  gardens  of  Spring, 
Remember  the  changes 

December  will  bring. 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson 


318 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


M    if 
I-  $ 


SORRENTO 

MIDWAY  betwixt  the  present  and  the  past, 
Naples  and  Paestum,  look  !  Sorrento  lies  : 
Ulysses  built  it,  and  the  Sirens  cast 

Their  spell  upon  the  shore,  the  sea,  the  skies. 

If  thou  hast  dreamed,  in  any  dream  of  thine, 
How  Paradise  appears,  or  those  Elysian 

Immortal  meadows  which  the  gods  assign 
Unto  the  pure  of  heart,— behold  thy  vision  ! 

These  waters,  they  are  blue  beyond  belief. 

Nor  hath   green  England  greener  fields  than 

these : 
The  sun,— 'tis  Italy's  ;  here  winter's  brief 
And  gentle  visit  hardly  chills  the  breeze. 

Here  Tasso  dwelt,  and  here  inhaled  with  spring 
The  breath  of  passion  and  the  soul  of  song. 

Here  young  Boccaccio  plumed  his  early  wing, 
Thenceforth  to  soar  above  the  vulgar  throng. 

AH  charms  of  contrast — every  nameless  grace 
That  lives  in  outline,  harmony,  or  hue — 

So  heighten  all  the  romance  of  the  place. 
That  the  rapt  artist  maddens  at  the  view. 

And  then  despairs,  and  throws  his  pencil  by, 
And  sits  all  day  and  looks  upon  the  shore 

And  the  calm  ocean  with  a  languid  eye, 
As  though  to  labour  were  a  law  no  more. 


TASSO'S    HOUSE  319 

Voluptuous  coast !  no  wonder  that  the  proud 
Imperial  Roman  found  in  yonder  isle 

Some  sunshine  still  to  gild  Fate's  gathering  clcud 
And  lull  the  storm  of  conscience  for  a  while. 

What  new  Tiberius,  tired  of  lust  and  life, 

May  rest  him  here  to  give  the  world  a  truce, — 

A  little  truce  from  perjury  and  strife. 
Justice  adulterate  and  power's  misuse? 

Might  the  gross  Bourbon,— he  that  sleeps  in  spite 

Of  red  Vesuvius  ever  in  his  eye. 
Yet,  if  he  wake,  should  tremble  at  its  light, 

As  'twere  Heaven's  ve  ngeance,  promised  from 
on  high, — 

Or  that  poor  gamester,  of  so  cunning  play, 
Who,  up  at  last,  in  Fortune's  fickle  dance. 

Aping  the  mighty  in  so  mean  a  way. 

Makes  now  his  dice  the  destinies  of  France, — 

Might  they,  or  any  of  Oppression's  band, 
Sit  here  and  learn  the  lesson  of  the  scene. 

Peace  might  return  to  many  a  bleeding  land. 
And  men  grow  just  again,  and  life  serene. 

Thomas  William  Parsons 


\^ 


WRITTEN    IN   TASSO'S    HOUSE   AT 
SORRENTO 

O  LEONORA,  here  thy  Tasso  dwelt. 
Secure,  ere  yet  thy  beauty  he  had  seen : 
Here  with  bright  face  and  unterrestrial  mien 
He  walked,  ere  yet  thy  shadow  he  had  felt. 


320  SKIES    ITALIAN 

From  that  green  rock  he  watched  the  sunset  melt, 
On  through  the  waves;    yon   cavern   was    his 

screen, 
When  first  those  hills,  which  gird  the  glowing 

scene. 
Were  thronged  with  heavenly  warriors,  and  he 

knelt 
To  hail  the  vision  !     Siren  baths  to  him 
Were  nothing  ;  Pagan  grot,  or  classic  fane. 
Or  glisteningpavementseen  through  billowsdim. 

Far,  far  o'er  these  he  gazed  on  Judah's  plain ; 
And  more  than  manhood  wrought  was  in  the 

boy, — 
Why  did  the  stranger  meddle  in  his  joy  ? 

Aubrey  de  Vere 

SORRENTO 

THE  midnight,  thick  with  cloud. 
Hangs  o'er  the  city's  jar. 
The  spirit's  shell  is  in  the  crowd. 

The  spirit  is  afar  ; 
Far,  where  in  shadowy  gloom 

Sleeps  the  dark  orange  grove, 
My  sense  is  drunk  with  its  perfume. 
My  heart  with  love. 

The  slumbrous,  whispering  sea 

Creeps  up  the  sands  to  lay 
Its  sliding  bosom  fringed  with  pearis 

Upon  the  rounded  bay. 
List !  all  the  trembling  leaves 

Are  rustling  overhead. 
Where  purple  grapes  are  hanging  dark 

On  the  trellised  loggia  spread. 


ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY   321 

Far  off,  a  misted  cloud. 

Hangs  fair  Inarime. 
The  boatman's  song  from  the  lighted  boat 

Rises  from  out  the  sea. 
We  listen, — then  thy  voice 

Pours  forth  a  honeyed  rhyme ; 
Ah  !  for  the  golden  nights  we  passed 

In  our  Italian  time. 

There  is  the  laugh  of  girls 

That  walk  along  the  shore. 
The  marinaio  calls  to  them 

As  he  suspends  his  oar. 
Vesuvius  rumbles  sullenly. 

With  fitful  lurid  gleam. 
The  background  of  all  Naples  life. 

The  nightmare  of  its  dream. 

O  lovely,  lovely  Italy, 

I  yield  me  to  thy  spell ! 
Reach  the  guitar,  my  dearest  friend, 

We'll  sing,  ''  Home  !  fare  thee  well !  " 

0  world  of  work  and  noise, 
What  spell  hast  thou  for  me  ? 

The  siren  Beauty  charms  me  here. 

Beyond  the  sea.  ^^ 

William  Wetmore  Story 

THE   ENGLISHMAN    IN    ITALY 

{Piano  di  Sorrento) 

FORTU,  Fortii,  my  beloved  one. 
Sit  here  by  my  side. 
On  my  knees  put  up  both  little  feet ! 
I  was  sure,  if  I  tried, 

1  could  make  you  laugh  spite  of  Scirocco. 

Now,  open  your  eyes, 

X 


322  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Let  me  keep  you  amused  till  he  vanish 

In  black  from  the  skies, 
With  telling  my  memories  over 

As  you  tell  your  beads ; 
All  the  Plain  saw  me  gather,  1  garland 

The  flowers  or  the  weeds. 

Time  for  rain  !  for  your  long  hot  dry  Autumn 

Had  net-worked  with  brown 
The  white  skin  of  each  grape  on  the  bunches. 

Marked  Uke  a  quail's  crown, 
Those  creatures  you  make  such  account  of, 

Whose  heads,— speckled  white 
Over  brown  like  a  great  spider's  back 

As  I  told  you  last  night,— 
Your  mother  bites  off  for  her  supper. 

Red-ripe  as  could  be, 
Pomegranates  were  chapping  and  splitting 

In  halves  on  the  tree  : 
And  betwixt  the  loose  walls  of  great  flintstone, 

Or  in  the  thick  dust 
On  the  path,  or  straight  out  of  the  rock-side. 

Wherever  could  thrust 
Some  burnt  sprig  of  bold  hardy  rock-flower 

Its  yellow  face  up, 
For  the  prize  were  great  butterflies  fighting. 

Some  five  for  one  cup. 
So,  I  guessed,  ere  I  got  up  this  morning, 

What  change  was  in  store, 
By  the  quick  rustle-down  of  the  quail-nets, 

Which  woke  me  before 
1  could  open  my  shutter,  made  fast 

With  a  bough  and  a  stone. 
And  look  through  the  twisted  dead  vine-twigs, 
Sole  lattice  that's  known. 


ENGLISHMAN    IN    ITALY    323 

Quick  and  sharp  rang  the  rings  down  the  net- 
poles. 

While,  busy  beneath. 
Your  priest  and  his  brother  tugged  at  them, 

The  rain  in  their  teeth. 
And  out  upon  all  the  flat  house-roofs 

Where  split  figs  lay  drying. 
The  girls  took  the  frails  under  cover : 

Nor  use  seemed  in  trying 
To  get  out  the  boats  and  go  fishing. 

For,  under  the  cliff, 
Fierce  the  black  water  frothed  o'er  the  blind-rock. 

No  seeing  our  skiff* 
Arrive  about  noon  from  Amalfi, 

— Our  fisher  arrive. 
And  pitch  down  his  basket  before  us, 

All  trembHng  alive 
With  pink  and  gray  jellies,  your  sea  fruit ; 

You  touch  the  strange  lumps. 
And  mouths  gape  there,  eyes  open,  all  manner 

Of  horns  and  of  humps, 
Which  only  the  fisher  looks  grave  at, 

While  round  him  like  imps 
Cling  screaming  the  children  as  naked 

And  brown  as  his  shrimps ; 
Himself  too  as  bare  to  the  middle 

— You  see  round  his  neck 
The  string  and  its  brass  coin  suspended. 

That  saves  him  from  wreck. 
But  to-day  not  a  boat  reached  Salerno, 

So  back,  to  a  man, 
Came  our  friends,  with  whose  help  in  the  vine- 
yards 

Grape-harvest  began. 


m 


fi! 


^  # 


i 


324  SKIES   ITALIAN 

In  the  vat,  halfway  up  in  our  house-side, 

Like  blood  the  juice  spins. 
While  your  brother  all  bare-legged  is  dancing 

Till  breathless  he  grins 
Dead-beaten  in  effort  on  effort 

To  keep  the  grapes  under, 
Since  still  when  he  seems  all  but  master,- 

In  pours  the  fresh  plunder 
From  girls  who  keep  coming  and  going 

With  basket  on  shoulder. 
And  eyes  shut  against  the  rain's  driving  ; 

Your  girls  that  are  older, — 
For  under  the  hedges  of  aloe. 

And  where,  on  its  bed 
Of  the  orchard's  black  mould,  the  love-apple 

Lies  pulpy  and  red. 
All  the  young  ones  are  kneeling  and  filling 

Their  laps  with  the  snails 
Tempted  out  by  this  first  rainy  weather,— 

Your  best  of  regales. 
As  to-night  will  be  proved  to  my  sorrow. 

When,  supping  in  state, 
We  shall  feast  our  grape-gleaners  (two  dozen. 

Three  over  one  plate) 
With  lasagne  so  tempting  to  swallow 

In  slippery  ropes. 
And  gourds  fried  in  great  purple  slices. 

That  colour  of  popes. 
Meantime,  see  the  grape-bunch  they've  brought 

you: 

The  rain-water  slips 
O'er  the  heavy  blue  bloom  on  each  globe 

Which  the  wasp  to  your  Ups 
Still  follows  with  fretful  persistence  : 


ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY   325 

Nay,  taste,  while  awake, 
This  half  of  a  curd-white  smooth  cheese-ball 

That  peels,  flake  by  flake. 
Like  an  onion,  each  smoother  and  whiter ; 

Next,  sip  this  weak  wine 
From  the  thin  green  glass  flask,  with  its  stopper, 

A  leaf  of  the  vine  ; 
And  end  with  the  prickly-pear's  red  flesh 

That  leaves  through  its  juice 
The  stony  black  seeds  on  your  pearl-teeth. 

Scirocco  is  loose  ! 
Hark,  the  quick,  whistling  pelt  of  the  olives 

Which,  thick  in  one's  track. 
Tempt  the  stranger  to  pick  up  and  bite  them, 

Though  not  yet  half  black  ! 
How  the  old  twisted  olive  trunks  shudder, 

The  medlars  let  fall 
Their  hard  fruit,  and  the  brittle  great  fig-trees 

Snap  off,  figs  and  all. 
For  here  comes  the  whole  of  the  tempest ! 

No  refuge,  but  creep 
Back  again  to  my  side  and  my  shoulder, 

And  listen  or  sleep. 

Oh,  how  will  your  country  show  next  week, 

When  all  the  vine-boughs 
Have  been  stripped  of  their  foliage  to  pasture 

The  mules  and  the  cows  ? 
Last  eve,  I  rode  over  the  mountains  ; 

Your  brother,  my  guide, 
Soon  left  me,  to  feast  on  the  myrtles 

That  offered,  each  side, 
Their  fruit-balls,  black,  glossy  and  luscious,— 

Or  strip  from  the  sorbs 


^^ 


326  SKIES    ITALIAN 

A  treasure,  or,  rosy  and  wondrous, 

Those  hairy  gold  orbs  ! 
But  my  mule  picked  his  sure  sober  path  out, 

Just  stopping  to  neigh 
When  he  recognised  down  in  the  valley 

His  mates  on  their  way 
With  the  faggots  and  barrels  of  water  ; 

And  soon  we  emerged 
From   the  plain,  where  the  woods  could  scarce 

follow  ; 

And  still  as  we  urged 
Our  way,  the  woods  wondered,  and  left  us, 

As  up  still  we  trudged. 
Though  the  wild  path  grew  wilder  each  insUnt, 

And  place  was  e'en  grudged 
'Mid  the  rock-chasms  and  piles  of  loose  stones 

Like  the  loose  broken  teeth 
Of  some  monster  which  climbed  there  to  die 

From  the  ocean  beneath — 
Place    was    grudged    to    the    silver-gray    fume- 

weed 
That  clung  to  the  path, 
And  dark  rosemary  ever  a-dying 

That,  spite  the  wind's  wrath. 
So  loves  the  salt  rock's  face  to  seaward. 

And  lentisks  as  staunch 
To  the  stone  where  they  root  and  bear  berries, 

And  .   .   .  what  shows  a  branch 
Coral-coloured,  transparent,  with  circlets 

Of  pale  sea-green  leaves ; 
Over  all  trod  my  mule  with  the  caution 

Of  gleaners  o'er  sheaves. 
Still,  foot  after  foot  like  a  lady, 

Till,  round  after  round. 


^^^ 


ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY  327 

He  climbed  to  the  top  of  Calvano, 

And  God's  own  profound 
Was  above  me,  and  round  me  the  mountains. 

And  under,  the  sea. 
And  within  me  my  heart  to  bear  witness 

What  was  and  shall  be. 
Oh,  heaven  and  terrible  crystal ! 

No  rampart  excludes 
Your  eye  from  the  life  to  be  lived 

In  the  blue  solitudes. 
Oh,  those  mountains,  their  infinite  movement ! 

Still  moving  with  you  ; 
For,  ever  some  new  head  and  breast  of  them 

Thrusts  into  view 
To  observe  the  intruder  ;  you  see  it 

If  quickly  you  turn 
And,  before  they  escape  you,  surprise  them. 

They  grudge  you  should  learn 
How  the  soft  plains  they  look  on,  lean  over 

And  love  (they  pretend) 
—Cower  beneath  them,  the  flat  sea-pine  crouches. 

The  wild  fruit-trees  bend, 
F;en  the  myrtle-leaves  curi,  shrink  and  shut : 

All  is  silent  and  grave  : 
'Tis  a  sensual  and  timorous  beauty, 

How  fair !  but  a  slave. 
So,  I  turned  to  the  sea ;  and  there  slumbered 

As  greenly  as  ever. 
Those  isles  of  the  siren,  your  Galli ; 

No  ages  can  sever 
The  Three,  nor  enable  their  sister 

To  join  them,— halfway 
On  the  voyage,  she  looked  at  Ulysses- 
No  farther  to-day. 


f 


MM 


n 


328  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Though  the  small  one,  just  launched  in  the  wave 

Watches  breast-high  and  steady 
From  under  the  rock,  her  bold  sister 

Swum  halfway  already. 
Fortu,  shall  we  sail  there  together 

And  see  from  the  sides 
Quite  new  rocks  show  their  faces,  new  haunts 

Where  the  siren  abides  ? 
Shall  we  sail  round  and  round  them,  close  over 

The  rocks,  though  unseen, 
That  ruffle  the  gray  glassy  water 

To  glorious  green  ? 
Then  scramble  from  splinter  to  splinter, 

Reach  land  and  explore. 
On  the  largest,  the  strange  square  black  turret 

With  never  a  door, 
Just  a  loop  to  admit  the  quick  lizards ; 

Then,  stand  there  and  hear 
The  birds'  quiet  singing,  that  tells  us 

What  life  is,  so  clear  ? 
—The  secret  they  sang  to  Ulysses 

When,  ages  ago. 
He  heard  and  he  knew  this  life's  secret 
1  hear  and  I  know. 


I;  I 

ij 


Ah,  see  I     The  sun  breaks  o'er  Calvano ; 

He  strikes  the  great  gloom 
And  flutters  it  o'er  the  mount's  summit 

In  airy  gold  fume. 
All  is  over.     Look  out,  see  the  gypsy, 

Our  tinker  and  smith. 
Has  arrived,  set  up  bellows  and  forge, 

And  down-squatted  forthwith 


ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY    329 

To  his  hammering,  under  the  wall  there  ; 

One  eye  keeps  aloof 
The  urchins  that  itch  to  be  putting 

His  jews' -harp  to  proof. 
While  the  other,  through  locks  of  curled  wire. 

Is  watching  how  sleek 
Shines  the  hog,  come  to  share  in  the  windfall 

—Chew  abbot's  own  cheek! 
All  is  over.    Wake  up  and  come  out  now, 

And  down  let  us  go. 
And  see  the  fine  things  got  in  order 

At  church  for  the  show 
Of  the  Sacrament,  set  forth  this  evening  ; 

To-morrow's  the  Feast 
Of  the  Rosary's  Virgin,  by  no  means 

Of  Virgins  the  least. 
As  you'll  hear  in  the  off-hand  discourse 

Which  (all  nature,  no  art) 
The  Dominican  brother,  these  three  weeks, 

Was  getting  by  heart. 
Not  a  pillar  nor  post  but  is  dizened 

With  red  and  blue  papers  ; 
All  the  roof  waves  with  ribbons,  each  altar 

Ablaze  with  long  tapers  ; 
But  the  great  masterpiece  is  the  scaffold 

Rigged  glorious  to  hold 
All  the  fiddlers  and  fifers  and  drummers 

And  trumpeters  bold. 
Not  afraid  of  Bellini  nor  Auber, 

Who,  when  the  priest's  hoarse. 
Will  strike  us  up  something  that's  brisk 

For  the  feast's  second  course. 
And  then  will  the  flaxen-wigged  Image 
Be  carried  in  pomp 


141 


W  ' 


Pit 


330  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Through  the  plain,  while  in  gallant  procession 

The  priests  mean  to  stomp. 
All  round  the  glad  church  lie  old  bottles 

With  gunpowder  stopped, 
Which  will  be,  when  the  Image  re-enters. 

Religiously  popped ; 
And  at  night  from  the  crest  of  Calvano 

Great  bonfires  will  hang, 
On  the  plain  will  the  trumpets  join  chorus, 

And  more  poppers  bang. 
At  all  events,  come— to  the  garden 

As  far  as  the  wall ; 
See  me  tap  with  a  hoe  on  the  plaster 

Till  out  there  shall  fall 
A  scorpion  with  wide  angry  nippers  ! 

— "  Such  trifles  !  "  you  say  ? 
Fortu,  in  my  England  at  home. 

Men  meet  gravely  to-day 
And  debate,  if  abolishing  Corn-laws 

Be  righteous  and  wise 
—If  'twere  proper,  Scirocco  should  vanish 

In  black  from  the  skies  ! 

Robert  Browning 


AMALFI 

SWEET  the  memory  is  to  me 
Of  a  land  beyond  the  sea, 
Where  the  waves  and  mountains  meet. 
Where,  amid  her  mulberry-trees, 
Sits  Amalfi  in  the  heat. 
Bathing  ever  her  white  feet 
In  the  tideless  summer  seas. 


AMALFI 

In  the  middle  of  the  town. 
From  its  fountains  in  the  hills. 
Tumbling  through  its  narrow  gorge. 
The  Canneto  rushes  down. 
Turns  the  great  wheels  of  the  mills. 
Lifts  the  hammers  of  the  forge. 


'Tis  a  stairway,  not  a  street. 
That  ascends  the  deep  ravine, 
Where  the  torrent  leaps  between 
Rocky  walls  that  almost  meet. 
Toiling  up  from  stair  to  stair 
Peasant  girls  their  burdens  bear ; 
Sunburnt  daughters  of  the  soil. 
Stately  figures  tall  and  straight. 
What  inexorable  fate 
Dooms  them  to  this  life  of  toil  ? 


331 


Lord  of  vineyards  and  of  lands. 
Far  above,  the  convent  stands. 
On  its  terraced  walk  aloof 
Leans  a  monk  with  folded  hands, 
Placid,  satisfied,  serene. 
Looking  down  upon  the  scene 
Over  wall  and  red-tiled  roof; 
Wondering  unto  what  good  end 
All  this  toil  and  traffic  tend. 
And  why  all  men  cannot  be 
Free  from  care  and  free  from  pain. 
And  the  sordid  love  of  gain. 
And  as  indolent  as  he. 


\ 


.f  f 


>1 


\m\ 


» 


II 


332  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Where  are  now  the  freighted  barks 
From  the  mart  of  east  and  west  ? 
Where  the  knights  in  iron  sarks 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land, 
Glove  of  steel  upon  the  hand, 
Cross  of  crimson  on  the  breast  ? 
Where  the  pomp  of  camp  and  court  ? 
Where  the  pilgrims  with  their  prayers  ? 
Where  the  merchants  with  their  wares, 
And  their  gallant  brigantines 
Sailing  safely  into  port 
Chased  by  corsair  Algerines  ? 


Vanished  like  a  fleet  of  cloud, 
Like  a  passing  trumpet-blast. 
Are  those  splendours  of  the  past. 
And  the  commerce  and  the  crowd ! 
Fathoms  deep  beneath  the  seas 
Lie  the  ancient  wharves  and  quays, 
Swallowed  by  the  engulfing  waves ; 
Silent  streets  and  vacant  halls. 
Ruined  roofs  and  towers  and  walls ; 
Hidden  from  all  mortal  eyes 
Deep  the  sunken  city  lies : 
Even  cities  have  their  graves ! 


This  is  an  enchanted  land  ! 
Round  the  headlands  far  away 
Sweeps  the  blue  Salernian  bay 
With  its  sickle  of  white  sand  : 
Further  still  and  furthermost 
On  the  dim  discovered  coast 


AMALFI  333 

Pgestum  with  its  ruins  lies, 
And  its  roses  all  in  bloom 
Seem  to  tinge  the  fatal  skies 
Of  that  lonely  land  of  doom. 


On  his  terrace,  high  in  air, 
Nothing  doth  the  good  monk  care 
For  such  worldly  themes  as  these. 
From  the  garden  just  below 
Little  puffs  of  perfume  blow, 
And  a  sound  is  in  his  ears 
Of  the  murmur  of  the  bees 
In  the  shining  chestnut-trees  ; 
Nothing  else  he  heeds  or  hears. 
All  the  landscape  seems  to  swoon 
In  the  happy  afternoon  ; 
Slowly  o'er  his  senses  creep 
The  encroaching  waves  of  sleep. 
And  he  sinks  as  sank  the  town, 
Unresisting,  fathoms  down. 
Into  caverns  cool  and  deep ! 


Walled  about  with  drifts  of  snow. 
Hearing  the  fierce  north-wind  blow. 
Seeing  all  the  landscape  white. 
And  the  river  cased  in  ice. 
Comes  this  memory  of  delight. 
Comes  this  vision  unto  me 
Of  a  long-lost  Paradise 
In  the  land  beyond  the  sea. 

Henry  Wadsnorth  Longfellow 


a 


334 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


M 


DRIFTING 

Y  soul  to-day 
Is  far  away. 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay  ; 
My  winged  boat, 
A  bird  afloat. 
Swims  round  the  purple  peaks  remote 


Round  purple  peaks 

It  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks. 

Where  high  rocks  throw, 

Through  deeps  below, 
A  duphcated  golden  glow. 

Far,  vague,  and  dim. 
The  mountains  swim ; 

While  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim 
With  outstretched  hands 
The  gray  smoke  stands 

O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 


Here  Ischia  smiles 
O'er  liquid  miles ; 

And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 
Calm  Capri  waits. 
Her  sapphire  gates 

Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 


DRIFTING 

I  heed  not,  if 

My  rippling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff;— 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 


335 


Under  the  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals. 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 

The  day  so  mild, 

Is  Heaven's  own  child. 
With  earth  and  ocean  reconciled  ; — 

The  airs  I  feel 

Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel. 

Over  the  rail 

My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail. 

O  joy  intense. 

The  cooling  sense 
(jlides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Where  summer  sings  and  never  dies, — 

O'erveiled  with  vines. 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 


336  SKIES    ITxVLIAN 

Her  children  hid 

The  cliffs  amid. 
Are  gambolling  with  the  gambolling  kid  ; 

Or  down  the  walls 

With  tipsy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  Ifke  waterfalls. 

The  fisher  s  child 

With  tresses  wild. 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled. 

With  glowing  lips, 

Sings  as  she  skips. 
Or  gazes  at  the  far-off  ships. 

Yon  deep  bark  goes 

Where  traffic  blows. 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows  ;— 

This  happier  one. 

Its  course  is  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

O  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip, 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip ! 

O  happy  crew. 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew  ! 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar ! 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise  ! 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read 


CAPRI 


337 


CAPRI 

THERE  is  an  isle,  kissed  by  a  smiling  sea, 
Where  all  sweet  confluents  meet :  a  thing  of 
heaven, 
A  spent  aerolite,  that  well  may  be 
The  missing  sister  of  the  starry  Seven. 
Celestial  beauty  nestles  at  its  knee. 
And  in  its  lap  is  naught  of  earthly  leaven. 
Tis  girt  and  crowned  with  loveliness;  its  year. 
Eternal  summer  ;  winter  comes  not  near. 

'Tis  small,  as  things  of  beauty  ofttimes  are, 
And  in  a  morning  round  it  you  may  row. 
Nor  need  a  tedious  haste  your  bark  debar 
From  gliding  inwards  where  the  ripples  flow 
Into  strange  grots  whose  roofs  are  azure  spar. 
Whose    pavements    liquid    silver.       Mild    winds 
blow 

Around  your  prow,  and  at  your  keel  the  foam. 
Leaping  and  laughing,  freshly  wafts  you  home. 


They  call  the  island  Capri,— with  a  name 

Dulling  an  airy  dream,  just  as  the  soul 

Is  clogged  with  body  palpable,— and  Fame 

Hath  long  while  winged  the  word  from  pole  to 

pole. 
Its  human  story  is  a  tale  of  shame, 
Of  all  unnatural  lusts  a  gory  scroll, 
Record  of  what,  when  pomp  and  power  agree, 
Man  once  hath  been,  and  man  again  may  be. 
Y 


338  SKIES   ITALIAN 

Terrace  and  slope  from  shore  to  summit  show 
Of  all  rich  climes  the  glad-surrendered  spoil. 
Here  the  bright  olive's  phantom  branches  glow, 
There  the  plump  fig  sucks  sweetness  from  the  soil. 
'Mid  odorous  flowers  that  through  the  Zodiac  blow, 
Returning  tenfold  to  man's  leisured  toil, 
Hesperia's  fruit  hangs  golden.      High  in  air, 
The  vine  runs  riot,  spurning  human  care. 

And  flowers  of  every  hue  and  breath  abound, 
Charming  the  sense  ;  the  burning  cactus  glows, 
Like  daisies  elsewhere  dappling  all  the  ground, 
And  in  each  cleft  the  berried  myrtle  blows. 
The  playful  lizard  glides  and  darts  around. 
The  elfin  fireflies  flicker  o'er  the  rows 
Of  ripened  grain.     Alien  to  pain  and  wrong, 
Men  fill  the  days  with  dance,  the  nights  with 

^''"^-  Alfred  Austin 

THE   AZURE   GROTTO 


BENEATH    the   vine-clad   slopes   of  Capri's 
Isle, 
Which  run  down  to  the  margin  of  that  sea 
Whose  waters  kiss  the  sweet  Parthenope, 

There  is  a  grot  whose  rugged  front  the  while 

Frowns  only  dark  when  all  is  seen  to  smile. 
But  enter,  and  behold  !  surpassing  fair 
The  magic  sight  that  meets  your  vision  there,— 

Not  heaven  !  with  all  its  broad  expanse  of  blue, 
Gleams  coloured  with  a  sheen  so  rich,  so  rare. 

So  changing  in  its  clear,  translucent  hue  ; 


IXARIME 


339 


1 


Glassed  in  the  lustrous  wave,  the  walls  and  roof 

Shine  as  does  silver  scattered  through  the  woof 

Of  some  rich  robe,  or  bright  as  stars  whose 

light 

Inlays  the  azure  concave  of  the  night. 


II 


You  cannot  find  throughout  this  world,  I  ween. 
Waters  so  fair  as  those  within  this  cave, 
Colour  like  that  which  flashes  from  the  wave, 
Or  which  is  steeped  in  such  cerulean  sheen 
As  here  gleams  forth  within  this  grotto's  screen. 

And  when  the  oar  the  boatman  gently  takes 
And  dips  it  in  the  flood,  a  fiery  glow. 
Ruddy  as  phosphor,  stirs  in  depths  below; 
Each  ripple  into  burning  splendour  breaks 
As  though  some  hidden  fires  beneath  did  lie 
Waiting  a  touch  to  kindle  into  flame. 

And  shine  in  radiance  on  the  dazzled  eye. 
As  sparkling  up  from  wells  of  light  they  came. 
To  make  this  grot  a  glory  far  and  nigh. 

Charles  D.  Bell 

INARIME 

{Vitloria  Colonna,  after  the  death  of  her  hushavd, 
the  Marchese  di  Pescara,  retired  to  her  castle  at 
hchia  (^Inarime),  and  there  trrote  the  ode  upon 
his  death  which  gained  her  the  title  of  Divine) 

ONCE  more,  once  more,  Inarime, 
I  see  thy  purple  hills ! — once  more 
I  hear  the  billows  of  the  bay 
Wash  the  white  pebbles  on  thy  shore. 


I 


340  SKIES    ITALIAN 

High  o'er  the  sea-surge  and  the  sands, 
Like  a  great  galleon  wrecked  and  cast 

Ashore  by  storms,  thy  castle  stands, 
A  mouldering  landmark  of  the  Past. 

Upon  its  terrace-walk  I  see 

A  phantom  gliding  to  and  fro  ; 
It  is  Colonna,— it  is  she 

Who  lived  and  loved  so  long  ago. 

Pescara's  beautiful  young  wife, 
The  type  of  perfect  womanhood, 

Whose  life  was  love,  the  life  of  life. 

That  time  and  change  and  death  withstood. 

For  death,  that  breaks  the  marriage  band 

In  others,  only  closer  pressed 
The  wedding-ring  upon  her  hand 

And  closer  locked  and  barred  her  breast. 

She  knew  the  life-long  martyrdom. 
The  weariness,  the  endless  pain 

Of  waiting  for  some  one  to  come 
Who  nevermore  would  come  again. 

The  shadows  of  the  chestnut-trees. 
The  odour  of  the  orange-blooms. 

The  song  of  birds,  and,  more  than  these, 
The  silence  of  deserted  rooms  ; 

The  respiration  of  the  sea, 

The  soft  caresses  of  the  air. 
All  things  in  nature  seemed  to  be 

But  ministers  of  her  despair ; 


PiESTUM  341 

Till  the  o'erburdened  heart,  so  long 
Imprisoned  in  itself,  found  vent 

And  voice  in  one  impassioned  song 
Of  inconsolable  lament. 

Then  as  the  sun,  though  hidden  from  sight. 
Transmutes  to  gold  the  leaden  mist. 

Her  life  was  interfused  with  light. 

From  realms  that,  though  unseen,  exist. 

Inarim^  !  Inarime  ! 

Thy  castle  on  the  crags  above 
In  dust  shall  crumble  and  decay. 

But  not  the  memory  of  her  love. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

P.^STUxM 

THERE,  down  Salerno's  bay. 
In  deserts  far  away. 
Over  whose  solitudes 
The  dread  malaria  broods, 
No  labour  tills  the  land, — 
Only  the  fierce  brigand, 
Or  shepherd,  wan  and  lean 
O'er  the  wild  plains  is  seen. 
Yet  there,  a  lovely  dream, 
Theje  Grecian  temples  gleam. 
Whose  form  and  mellowed  tone 
Rival  the  Parthenon. 
The  Sybarite  no  more 
Comes  hither  to  adore, 
With  perfumed  offering. 
The  ocean  god  and  king. 
The  deity  is  fled 
Long  since,  but,  in  his  stead, 


m 


1      IP 


11 


342  SKIES    ITALIAN 

The  smiling  sea  is  seen, 
The  Doric  shafts  between  ; 
And  round  the  time-worn  base 
Climb  vines  of  tender  grace, 
And  Paestum's  roses  still 
The  air  with  fragance  fill. 

Christopher  Pearce  Cranch 

MARE   MEDITERRANEUM 

ALINE  of  light  I  it  is  the  inland  sea, 
The  least  in  compass  and  the  first  in  fame ; 
The  gleaming  of  its  waves  recalls  to  me 
Full  many  an  ancient  name. 

As  through  my  dreamland  float  the  days  of  old, 
The  forms  and  features  of  their  heroes  shine  : 

I  see  Phoenician  sailors  bearing  gold 
From  the  Tartessian  mine. 

Seeking     new      worlds,     storm-tossed      Ulysses 
ploughs 

Remoter  surges  of  the  winding  main  ; 
And  Grecian  captains  come  to  pay  their  vows, 

Or  gather  up  the  slain. 

I  see  the  temples  of  the  Violet  Crown 

Burn  upward  in  the  hour  of  glorious  flight ; 

And  mariners  of  uneclipsed  renown, 
Who  won  the  great  sea-fight. 

I  hear  the  dashing  of  a  thousand  oars. 
The  angry  waters  take  a  deeper  dye  ; 

A  thousand  echoes  vibrate  from  the  shores 
With  Athens'  battle-cry. 


MARE   MEDITERRANEUM    343 

Again  the  Carthaginian  rovers  sweep. 

With  sword  and  commerce,  on  from  shore  to 
shore  ; 

In  visionary  storms  the  breakers  leap 
Round  Syrtes,  as  of  yore. 

Victory,  sitting  on  the  Seven  Hills, 

Had  gained  the  world  when  she  had  mastered 
thee  ; 
Thy  bosom  with  the  Roman  war-note  thrills. 

Wave  of  the  inland  sea. 


H 


Then,  singing  as  they  sail  in  shining  ships, 
I  see  the  monarch  minstrels  of  Romance, 

And   hear   their  praises  murmured  through  the 
lips 
Of  the  fair  dames  of  France. 


Across  the  deep  another  music  swells. 
On  Adrian  bays  a  later  splendour  smiles ; 

Power  hails  the  marble  city  where  she  dwells 
Queen  of  a  hundred  isles. 

Westward  the  galleys  of  the  Crescent  roam. 
And  meet  the  Pisan ;  challenge  on  the  breeze. 

Till  the  long  Dorian  palace  lords  the  foam 
With  stalwart  Genoese. 


But  the  light  fades ;  the  vision  wears  away  ; 

I  see  the  mist  above  the  dreary  wave. 
Blow,  winds  of  Freedom,  give  another  day 

Of  glory  to  the  brave  ! 

John  Nichol 


I 


344 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


TAORMINA 

GARDENS    of    olive,    gardens    of    almond, 
gardens  of  lemon,  down  to  the  shore, 
Terrace    on  terrace,   lost   in   the   hollow    ravines 

where  the  stony  torrents  pour  ; 
Spurs  of  the  mountain-side  thrusting  above  them 

rocky  capes  in  the  quiet  air, 
Silvery-green  with  thorned  vegetation,  sprawling 

lobes  of  the  prickly  pear  ; 
High  up,  the  eagle-nest,  small  Mola's  ruin,  cling- 
ing and  hanging  over  the  fall ; 
Nobly    the    lofty,  castle-cragged    hilltop,    famed 

Taormina,  looketh  o'er  all. 
Southward  the  purple  Mediterranean  rounds  the 

far-shimmering,  long-fingered  capes ; 
Twenty   sea-leagues  has  the  light  travelled  ere 

out  of  azure  yon  headland  it  shapes ; 
Purple  the  distance,  deep  indigo  under,  save  by 

the  beach  the  emerald  door. 
Save  just  below  where,  ever  emerging,  lakes  of 

mother-of-pearl  drift  o'er  ; 
Deep  purple  northward,  over  the  Straits,  as  far  as 

the  long  Calabrian  blue ; 
Front  more  majestic  of  sea-mountains  nowhere  is 

there  uplifted  the  whole  earth  through. 
Seaward  so  vast  the  prospect  envelops  one-half  of 

the  w^orld  of  the  wave  and  the  sky  : 
Landward    the    ribbon    of  hill-slanted    orchards 

blossoming  down  from  the  mountains  high  ; 
Beautiful,  mighty ; — yet  ever  I  leave  it,  lose  and 
forget  it  in  yon  awful  clime, 


i 


ETNA 


345 


iEtna,  out  of  the  sea-floor  raising  slowly  its  long- 
skied  ridge  sublime  ; 
Heavily    snow-capped,    bossed    and    sculptured, 

massive,  immense,  alone,  entire  ; 
Clear  are  the  hundred  white-coped  craters  sunk 

in  the  wrinkled  winter  there ; 
Smoke  from  the  summit  cloud-like  trailing  lessens 

and  swells  and  drags  on  the  air ; 
JEtna,   the  snow,  the  fire,   the  forest,   lightning 

and  flood  and  ashy  gale  ; 
Terrible  out  of  thy  caverns  flowing,  the  burning 

heaven,  the  dark,  hot  hail  ! 
.Etna,    the    garden-sweet    mother    of    vineyard, 

corn-tilth,  and  fruits  that  hang  from  the  sky ; 
Bee-pastured  .Etna  ;    it  charms  me,  it  holds  me, 

it  fills  me — than  life  is  it  more  nigh ; 
Till   into  darkness   withdrawn,   dense    darkness; 

and  far  below  from  the  deep-set  shore 
Glimmers  the  long  white  surf,  and  uprises  the  old 

Trinacrian  roar. 

George  Edward  Woodberry 

[Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Messrs  Macmillan] 

ETNA 

THROUGH  the  black,  rushing  smoke-bursts 
Thick  breaks  the  red  flame  ; 
All  Etna  heaves  fiercely 
Her  forest-clothed  frame. 

Not  here,  O  Apollo ! 

Are  haunts  meet  for  thee. 

But  where  Helicon  breaks  down 

In  cliff  to  the  sea. 


?  i 


ii 


I 


346  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Where  the  moon-silvered  inlets 
Send  far  their  light  voice 
Up  the  still  vale  of  Thisbe, 
O,  speed,  and  rejoice  ! 

On  the  sward  at  the  cliff-top 
Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks  ; 
On  the  cliff-side  the  pigeons 
Roost  deep  in  the  rocks  ; 

In  the  moonlight  the  shepherds, 
Soft  lulled  by  the  rills. 
Lie  wrapt  in  their  blankets, 
Asleep  on  the  hills. 

What  forms  are  these  coming 
So  white  through  the  gloom  ? 
What  garments  out-glistening 
The  gold-flowered  broom  ? 

What  sweet-breathing  presence 
Outperfumes  the  thyme  ? 
What  voices  enrapture 
The  night's  balmy  prime  ? 

'Tis  Apollo  comes  leading 
His  choir,  the  Nine. 
The  leader  is  fairest, 
But  all  are  divine. 

They  are  lost  in  the  hollows  ! 
They  stream  up  again  ! 
What  seeks  on  this  mountain 
The  glorified  train  ? 


ARETHUSA  347 

They  bathe  on  this  mountain. 
In  the  spring  by  their  road  ; 
Then  on  to  Olympus, 
Their  endless  abode ! 

Whose  praise  do  they  mention  ? 
Of  what  is  it  told  ? 
What  will  be  forever ; 
What  was  from  of  old. 

First  hymn  they  the  Father 
Of  all  things  ;  and  then 
The  rest  of  immortals, 
The  action  of  men. 

The  day  in  his  hotness. 
The  strife  with  the  palm ; 
The  night  in  her  silence. 
The  stars  in  their  calm 

Matthew  Arnold 


Al 


ARETHUSA 

RETHUSA  arose 
From  her  couch  of  snows 
In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains  ; 

From  cloud  and  from  crag 

With  many  a  jag. 
Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 

She  leapt  down  the  rocks, 

With  her  rainbow  locks 
Streaming  among  the  streams  ; 

Her  steps  paved  with  green 

The  downward  ravine 
Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams ; 


348  SKIES    ITALIAN 

And  gliding  and  springing, 
She  went,  ever  singing, 

In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep. 

The  earth  seemed  to  love  her. 
And  heaven  smiled  above  her, 

As  she  lingered  towards  the  deep. 


Then  Alpheus  bold, 

On  his  glacier  cold. 
With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook ; 

And  opened  a  chasm 

In  the  rocks  ; — with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south-wind 

It  concealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow. 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 

Did  rend  in  sunder 
The  bars  of  the  springs  below  ; 

The  beard  and  the  hair 

Of  the  river-god  were 
Seen  through  the  torrent's  sweep. 

As  he  followed  the  light 

Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 
To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 


I 


"  O,  save  me  !  O,  guide  me. 
And  bid  the  deep  hide  me. 

For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair ! " 
The  loud  ocean  heard. 
To  its  blue  depths  stirred, 

And  divided  at  her  prayer ; 


ARETHUSA 


349 


And  under  the  water 

The  Earth's  white  daughter 
Fled  like  a  sunny  beam  ; 

Behind  her  descended 

Her  billows,  unblended 
With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream  ; 

Like  a  gloomy  stain 

On  the  emerald  main 
Alpheus  rushed  behind, — 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 

A  dove  to  its  ruin 
Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 

Under  the  bowers 

Where  the  ocean  powers 
Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones ; 

Through  the  coral  woods 

Of  the  weltering  floods, 
Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones ; 

Through  the  dim  beams 

Which  amid  the  streams 
Weave  a  network  of  coloured  light ; 

And  under  the  caves. 

Where  the  shadowy  waves 
Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night ; — 

Outspeeding  the  shark. 

And  the  sword-fish  dark. 
Under  the  ocean  foam. 

And  up  through  the  rifts 

Of  the  mountain  clifts 
They  passed  to  their  Dorian  home. 

And  now  from  their  fountains 
In  Enna's  mountains, 
Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks. 


1 


350  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Like  friends  once  parted, 

Grown  single-hearted. 
They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 

At  sunrise  they  leap 

From  their  cradles  steep 
In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill ; 

At  noontide  they  flow 

Through  the  woods  below 
And  the  meadows  of  asphodel ; 

And  at  night  they  sleep 

In  the  rocking  deep 
Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore  ; — 

Like  spirits  that  lie 

In  the  azure  sky 
When  they  love  but  live  no  more. 

Percy  Bysalic  S/icllcy 


MEDITATIONS 


MEDITATIONS 


BIRTHRIGHT 


YOU  pelt  me  for  barbarian. 
Little  son  of  Italy, 
Your  laughing  sister  cries  you  on, 
Mischief-dancing,  prettily. 
Yet  to  your  cerulean  sky 
Which  more  native,  you  or  I  ? 

You  peasant,  in  your  stage-land  cloak, 

Turning  out  so  charily 
To  let  me  pass,  below  your  brow 
Though  you  eye  me  warily. 
To  your  cypress-pillared  sky 
Which  more  native,  you  or  I  ? 

My  scornful  goatherd — while  your  flock 
Clips  the  young  flowers  fragrantly — 
Up  the  long  hill  to  Tusculum 
Loitering,  singing  vagrantly. 

Where  that  green  path  meets  the  sky 
Which  has  birthright,  you  or  I  ? 

You  will  but  sit  and  take  the  sun 

On  the  warm  stones  prosily  ; 
For  me  will  come  old  dreams,  old  loves, 
Old  Pan  piping  dozily. 
Ah,  to  this  memorial  sky 
Which  more  native,  you  or  I .'' 

Maud  Caldwell  Perry 

z  353 


354 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


TO   ITALY 

OLAND  of  beauty,  garlanded  with  pine 
And    luscious   grape-vines,    'neath    whose 
vaulted  skies 
Of  blue  eternal,  marble  mansions  rise. 
And  roseate  flowers  from  every  lattice  shine  ! 
Still  have  the  nations  striven  from  of  yore 
For  thy  fair  fields,  lovely  as  Eden's  plain  ; 
Thy  temples,  and  thy  cities  by  the  main 
Throned  hoar  and  gray  upon  the  rocky  shore. 
Who  hath  seen  thee,  O,  never  in  his  breast 
The  heart  grows  wholly  old  !     Some  youthful  zest 
Of  life  still  lingers  :  some  bright  memory  ! 
And  when  the  nightingales  in  autumn  chill 
Fly  forth,  a  yearning  stirs  his  spirit  still 
To  fly  with  them  toward  sunny  Italy ! 

Anonymous 


TO   ITALY 


(^Frotn  Filicaja) 

ITALY  !  Italy  !  thou  who'rt  doomed  to  wear 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  and  possess 
The  dower  funest  of  infinite  wretchedness 
Written  upon  thy  forehead  by  despair ; 
Ah  !  would  that  thou  wert  stronger,  or  less  fair. 
That  they  might  fear  thee  more,  or  love  thee  less, 
Who  in  the  splendour  of  thy  loveliness 
Seem  wasting,  yet  to  mortal  combat  dare ! 


TO    ITALY 


355 


Then  from  the  Alps  I  should  not  see  descending 
Such  torrents  of  armed  men,  nor  Gallic  horde 
Drinking  the  wave  of  Po,  distained  with  gore. 

Nor  should  I  see  thee  girded  with  a  sword 

Not  thine,  and  with   the  stranger's  arm   con- 
tending, 

Victor  or  vanquished,  slave  for  evermore. 

Henry  Wadsivorth  Longfellow 


TO    ITALY 

O  ITALY,  my  country  !     I  behold 
Thy   columns,   and   thine   arches,  and   thy 
walls. 

And  the  })roud  statues  of  our  ancestors  ; 
The  laurel  and  the  mail  with  which  our  sires 
Were  clad,  these  I  behold  not,  nor  their  fame. 
Why  thus  unarmed,  with  naked  breast  and  brow  ? 
What  means  that  livid  paleness,  those  deep  wounds.^ 
To  heaven  and  earth  I  raise  my  voice,  and  ask 
What  hand  hath  brought  thee  to  this  low  estate. 
Who,  worse  than  all,  hath  loaded  thee  with  chains. 
So  that,  unveiled  and  with  dishevelled  hair. 
Thou  sittest  on  the  ground  disconsolate. 
Hiding  thy  weeping  face  between  thy  knees  .^ 
Ah,  weep,  Italia  I  thou  hast  cause  to  weep ! 
Degraded  and  forlorn.     Yes,  were  thine  eyes 
Two  living  fountains,  never  could  thy  tears 
Equal  thy  desolation  and  thy  shame  ! 
Fallen  .'—ruined  !— lost !  who  writes  or  speaks  of 
thee. 

But,  calling  unto  mind  thine  ancient  fame. 
Exclaims,  "  Once  she  was  mighty  !     Is  this  she  }  " 
Where  is  thy  vaunted  strength,  thy  high  resolve .- 


356 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


Who  from  thy  belt  hath  torn  the  warrior  sword  ? 
How  hast  thou  fallen  from  thy  pride  of  place 
To  this  abyss  of  misery  !     Are  there  none 
To  combat  for  thee,  to  defend  thy  cause  ? 
To  arms  !     Alone  I'll  fight  and  fall  for  thee  ! 
Content  if  my  best  blood  strike  forth  one  spark 
To  fire  the  bosoms  of  my  countrymen. 
Where  are  thy  sons  !      I  hear  the  clang  of  arms, 
The  din  of  voices,  and  the  bugle-note ; 
Sure  they  are  fighting  for  a  noble  cause  ! 
Yes,  one  faint  hope  remains, —  I  see, — I  see 
The  fluttering  of  banners  in  the  breeze  ; 
I  hear  the  tramp  of  horses  and  of  men. 
The  roar  of  cannon,  and,  like  glittering  lamps 
Amid  the  darkening  gloom,  the  flash  of  swords. 
Is  there  no  comfort  ?     And  who  combat  there 
In  that  Italian  camp  ?     Alas,  ye  gods, 
Italian  brands  fight  for  a  foreign  lord  ! 
O,  miserable  those  whose  blood  is  shed 
Not  for  their  native  land,  for  wife  or  child, 
But  for  a  stranger  lord, — who  cannot  say 
With  dying  breath,  "  My  country  I   [  restore 
The  life  thou  givest,  and  gladly  die — for  thee  !  " 

Giacomo  Leopard i, 

tr.  Anon. 

TO    ITALY 


FAIR    land,    once    loved    of  Heaven   o'er  all 
beside, 
Which   blue   waves  gird    and   lofty  mountains 


screen 


Thou  clime  of  fertile  fields  and  sky  serene. 
Whose  gay  expanse  the  Apennines  divide ! 


CITTA    D'lTALIA 


357 


What  boots  it  now,  that  Rome's  old  warlike  pride 
Left  thee  of  humbled  earth  and  sea  the  queen  ? 
Nations,  that  served  thee  then,  now  fierce  con- 
vene 
To  tear  thy  locks  and  strew  them  o'er  the  tide. 
And  lives  there  son  of  thine  so  base  at  core, 
Who,  luring  foreign  friends  to  thy  embrace, 
Stabs  to  the  heart  thy  beauteous,  bleeding 

frame  ? 
Are  these  the  noble  deeds  of  ancient  fame  .'* 
Thus  do  ye  God's  almighty  name  adore  } 

O  hardened  age  !     O  false  and  recreant  race  ! 

Pietro  BemhOf 

tr.  Anon. 


CITTA    D'ITALIA 


["  The  following  lines  of  some  unknown  author, 
descriptive  of  Italian  towns,  are  taken  from  James 
Howell's  '  Signorie  of  Yenice,'  1 65 1 .  The  orthog- 
raphy has  been  modernized." — "  Poems  of 
Places,"  ed.  Longfellow.] 

FAM  A  tra  noi ;   Roma  pomposa  e  santa  ; 
Yenezia  ricca,  saggia,  signorile  ; 
Napoli  odorifera  e  gentile  ; 
Fiorenza  bella  tutto  il  mondo  canta  ; 
Grande  Milano  in  Italia  si  vanta  ; 
Bologna  grassa,  e  Ferrara  civile  ; 
Padova  dotta,  e  Bergamo  sottile  ; 
Genova  di  superbia  altiera  pianta  ; 
Verona  degna,  e  Perugia  sanguigna  ; 
Brescia  I'armata,  e  Mantova  gloriosa ; 


358  SKIES    ITALIAN 

Rimini  buona^  e  Pistoja  ferrigna ; 

Cremona  antica,  e  Lucca  industriosa  ; 

Furli  bizzarro,  e  Ravenna  benigna ; 

E  Sinigaglia  dell'  aria  nojosa ; 

E  Capua  I'amorosa ; 

Pisa  frondente,  e  Pesaro  giardino  ; 

Ancona  bel  porto  al  pellegrino ; 

Fedelissimo  Urbino ; 

Ascoli  tondo,  e  lungo  Recanate  ; 

Foligno  delle  strade  inzuccherate, 

E  par  dal  cielo  mandate 

Le  belle  donne  di  Fano  si  dice ; 

Ma  Siena  poi  tra  I'altre  piii  felice. 


^ 


LOVE   AND    ITALY 


ADIEU  ! 


THEY  halted  at  the  terrace  wall ; 
Below,  the  towered  city  lay ; 
The  valley  in  the  moonlight's  thrall 

Was  silent  in  a  swoon  of  May. 
As  hand  to  hand  spake  one  soft  word 

Beneath  the  friendly  ilex-tree, 
They  knew  not,  of  the  flame  that  stirred, 
What  part  was  Love,  what  Italy. 

They  knew  what  makes  the  moon  more  bright 

Where  Beatrice  and  Juliet  are, — 
The  sweeter  perfume  in  the  night. 

The  lovelier  starlight  in  the  star  ; 
And  more  that  glowing  hour  did  prove 

Beneath  the  sheltering  ilex-tree, — 
That  Italy  transfigures  Love, 

As  Love  transfigures  Italy. 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson 


V 


ADIEU ! 

IN    ITALY 

NOT  Nemi  charms  me  with  her  olive  trees, 
Nor  fair  Frascati — at  the  close  of  day 
Gemming  the  Alban  Mount — a  pearl  astray : 
The  rampant  Centaurs  of  the  ruined  frieze  ; 
The  immemorial  Caryatides ; 

The  marvels  of  the  famed  Flaminian  Way  ; 
The  wide  Campagna's  reaches,  lone  and  gray  ; — 
All  unallured  I  still  can  look  on  these. 
Unalienated  yet  by  spire  or  dome, 
By  clifT-built  citadel,  or  stately  pine, 

Or  all  the  Naiads  of  Italian  rills. 
My  heart  leaps  westward  o'er  the  rolling  brine 
To  bask  once  more  upon  the  purple  hills — 

The  Appalachian  ridges  round  my  home  I 

Lloyd  Mifflin 

LINES    ON    LEAVING    ITALY 

ONCE  more  among  the  old  gigantic  hills 
With  vapours  clouded  o'er ; 
The  vales  of  Lombardy  grow  dim  behind, 
The  rocks  ascend  before. 


They  beckon  me,  the  giants,  from  afar. 

They  wing  my  footsteps  on ; 
Their  helms  of  ice,  their  plumage  of  the  pine, 

Their  cuirasses  of  stone. 

361 


362 


SKIES   ITALIAN 


My    heart   beats    high,    my   breath    comes   freer 
forth, — 

Why  should  my  heart  be  sore  ? 
I  hear  the  eagle  and  the  vulture's  cry, 

The  nightingale's  no  more. 

Where  is  the  laurel,  where  the  myrtle's  blossom  ? 

Bleak  is  the  path  around  : 
Where   from    the    thicket   comes   the   ringdove's 
cooing  ? 

Hoarse  is  the  torrent's  sound. 

Yet  should  I  grieve,  when  from  my  loaded  bosom 

A  weight  appears  to  flow  ? 
Methinks  the  Muses  come  to  call  me  home 

From  yonder  rocks  of  snow. 

I  know  not  how.  hut  in  yon  land  of  roses 

My  heart  was  heavy  still. 
I  startled  at  the  warbling  nightingale. 

The  zephyr  on  the  hill. 

They  said  the  stars  shone  with  a  softer  gleam, — 

It  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 
In  vain  a  scene  of  beauty  beamed  around. 
My  thoughts  were  o'er  the  sea. 

A(ia?n  Gottloh  Oehlvnschlaser. 

tr.  Anon. 


TTrHATt 
V  \      wear. 


L'ADIEU 

though  a  mourning  garment  now  she 


This    land    that    twice    hath    swerved    Earth's 

destinies  : 
Spite  of  disgraces  and  long  miseries, 
We  may  not  quit  her  save  with  pain  and  care. 


FAREWELL   TO    ITALY     363 

So  at  the  gateway  of  her  gardens  rare 

1  turn,  upon  this  topmost  ridge,  once  more 
To  view  the  horizon's  sun-enchanted  shore, 

And  drug  my  spirit  on  the  beauties  there. 

Then  the  north  grips  me ;  it  chills  all  my  veins ; 
And  this  fond  heart  contracts,  as  it  had  seen 

On  the  Italian  hillsides  and  wide  plains 

My  leafy  youth  stripped  of  its  freshest  green — 

As  if  on  that  dark  goddess'  glowing  breast 

I  had  outlived  of  my  brief  years  the  best. 

August e  Barbier, 

tr.  Ruth  Shepard  Phelps 

FAREWELL   TO    ITALY 


T  LEAVE  thee,  beauteous  Italy  !  no  more 
From  thy  high  terraces  at  even-tide, 
To  look  supine  into  thy  depths  of  sky, 
Thy  golden  moon  between  the  cliff  and  me. 
Or  thy  dark  spires  of  fretted  cypresses 
Bordering  the  channel  of  the  milky  way. 
Fiesole  and  V^aldarno  must  be  dreams 
Hereafter,  and  my  own  lost  Affrico 
Murmur  to  me  but  in  the  poet's  song. 
I  did  believe  (what  have  I  not  believed  }) 
Weary  with  age,  but  unoppressed  with  pain, 
To  close  in  thy  soft  clime  my  quiet  day 
And  rest  my  bones  in  the  mimosa's  shade. 
Hope  !   Hope  !  few  ever  cherished  thee  so  little  ; 
Few  are  the  heads  thou  hast  so  rarely  raised ; 
But  thou  didst  promise  this,  and  all  was  well. 
For  we  are  fond  of  thinking  where  to  lie 
When  every   pulse   hath   ceased,  when  the   lone 
heart 


364 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


Can  lift  no  aspiration — reasoning 

As  if  the  sight  were  unimpaired  by  death, 

Were  unobstructed  by  the  coffin-lid, 

And  the  sun  cheered  corruption  I     Over  all 

The  smiles  of  Nature  shed  a  potent  charm, 

And  light  us  to  our  chamber  at  the  grave. 

Walter  Savage  Landor 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  LAND  OF  THE 

SOUTH 

FAREWELL  to  the  Land  of  the  South  ! 
Farewell  to  the  lovely  clime. 
Where  the  sunny  valleys  smile  in  light, 

And  the  piny  mountains  climb ! 
Farewell  to  her  bright  blue  seas ! 
Farewell  to  her  fervid  skies ! 

O,  many  and  deep  are  the  thoughts  which  crowd 
On  the  sinking  heart,  while  it  sighs, 
"  Farewell  to  the  Land  of  the  South  !  " 

As  the  look  of  a  face  beloved. 

Was  that  bright  land  to  me  I 
It  enchanted  my  sense,  it  sank  on  my  heart 

Like  music's  witchery ! 
In  every  kindling  pulse 
I  felt  the  genial  air, 
For  life  is  life  in  that  sunny  clime, 
'Tis  death  of  life  elsewhere  : 

Farewell  to  the  Land  of  the  South  ! 

The  poet's  splendid  dreams 

Have  hallowed  each  grove  and  hill. 

And  the  beautiful  forms  of  ancient  Faith 
Are  lingering  round  us  still. 


ITALIA  365 

And  the  spirits  of  other  days. 

Invoked  by  fancy's  spell, 

Are  rolled  before  the  kindling  thought, 
While  we  breathe  our  last  farewell 
To  the  glorious  Land  of  the  South  ! 


A  long,  a  last  adieu. 

Romantic  Italy  ! 
Thou  land  of  beauty  and  love  and  song. 

As  once  of  the  brave  and  free  ! 
Alas  for  thy  golden  fields ! 
Alas  for  thy  classic  shore  ! 
Alas  for  thy  orange  and  myrtle  bowers  ! 

I  shall  never  behold  them  more, — 

Farewell  to  the  Land  of  the  South  ! 

Anna  Jameson 


V 


"ITALIA,    lO   TI    SALUTO 


TO  come  back  from  the  sweet  South,  to  the 
North 
Where  I  was  born,  bred,  look  to  die  ; 
Come  back  to  do  my  day's  work  in  its  day, 
Play  out  my  play — 
Amen,  amen,  say  I. 


To  see  no  more  the  country  half  my  own. 

Nor  hear  the  half  familiar  speech. 
Amen,  I  say,  I  turn  to  that  bleak  North 
Whence  I  came  forth — 
The  South  lies  out  of  reach. 


366  SKIES    ITALIAN 

But  when  the  swallows  fly  back  to  the  South, 

To  the  sweet  South,  to  the  sweet  South, 
The  tears  may  come  again  hito  my  eyes 
On  the  old  wise. 
The  old  name  to  my  mouth. 

Christina  G.  Rossetti 


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ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

GRATEFUL  acknowledgment  of  permission 
to  include  in  this  collection,  in  both  its 
English  and  American  Editions,  poems  held  under 
copyright,  is  tendered  to  the  following  : — 

For  their  own  poems  :  To  Mr  Andrew  Lang, 
Mr  Arthur  Symons,  Sir  Rennell  Rodd,  Mr  Robert 
Underwood  Johnson,  Mr  Lloyd  Mifflin,  Mr  Robert 
Cameron  Rogers,  Mr  Samuel  Waddington,  Mr  E. 
H.  Pember,  Mrs  Grace  Ellery  Channing-Stetson, 
Miss  Edith  M.  Thomas,  Mme.  fimile  Duclaux 
(A.  Mary  F.  Robinson),  Mrs  Julia  Ward  Howe, 
Mr  William  Dean  Howells,  Mr  J.  W.  Mackail, 
Mr  Alfred  Austin,  Mr  George  Edward  Woodberry, 
Mrs  Alice  Meynell,  Mrs  Nina  Morais  Cohen  and 
the  late  Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

For  poems  under  their  control  :  To  Messrs 
Houghton,  Mifflin  ^  Co.  for  poems  by  Henry 
Wadsworth  Longfellow,  James  Russell  Lowell, 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier, 
Thomas  William  Parsons,  Bayard  Taylor,  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldrich,  Mrs  R.  H.  Stoddard,  W.  W.  Story, 
C.  P.  Cranch  and  Mr  Laurence  Binyon,  and  for 
confirming  the  permissions  of  Mr  Howells  and 
Mrs  Howe  ;  to  Messrs  Forbes  &  Co.  for  poems 
by  Sir  Rennell  Rodd,  from  the  volume  entitled 
"Myrtle  and  Oak";  to  Messrs  Little,  Brown  & 
Co.  for  poems  by  Thomas  Gold  Appleton  and 
Helen   Hunt  Jackson ;  to  the  Century  Co.  for  a 

367 


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368 


SKIES    ITALIAN 


poem  by  Miss  Maude  Caldwell  Perry,  and  for  con- 
firming the  permissions  of  Mr  R.  U.  Johnson  and 
Mr  R.   VV.  Gilder ;  to  Messrs  Burns  &  Oates  for 
a  poem  by  Father  Faber  ;  to  Mr  T.  Fisher  Unwin 
for  a  poem  by  Amy  Levy  ;  to  Messrs  Kegan  Paul, 
Trench,  Trubner  &  Co.  for  a  poem  by  Archbishop 
Trench  ;  to  Mr  Horatio  Brown  for  poems  by  John 
Addington  Symonds,  and  to  Messrs  Smith,  Elder 
&  Co.  for  confirming  his  permission ;    to  Messrs 
Lothrop,   Lee  &  Shepard  for  poems  by  William 
Gibson  ;,to  Mr  Ellis  for  poems  by  Dante  Gabriel 
Rossetti ;  to  Messrs    George   Allen   Si  Co.   for   a 
poem  by  Ruskin ;  to  Messrs  Lippincott  for  poems 
by  Thomas  Buchanan  Read  ;  to  The  John  Lane  Co, 
for  a  poem  by  Mr  William  Watson  ;  to  Messrs  Mac- 
millan  for  a  poem  by  Matthew  Arnold,  for  confirm- 
ing the  permission  of  Mr  G.  Locker-Lampson  for  a 
poem  by  Frederick  Locker-Lampson,  and  that  ol' 
Mr  Alfred  Austin  for  a  poem  of  his  own,  and  for 
confirming  with  special  permission  the  consent  of 
Mr  G.  E.  Woodberry  to  use  certain  poems  of  his ; 
to    Mrs    William    Sharp    and    Mrs   Eugene    Lee- 
Hamilton  ;    to    Mr    Robert    Ross    for    poems    by 
Oscar  Wilde  ;  to  Lord  Tennyson  for  poems  by  the 
late  Lord  Tennyson  and  Charles  Tennyson  Turner ; 
to  Mr  E.    D.   Brooks   and  the  estate  of  Arthur 
Upson  for  poems  by  Arthur  Upson  ;  to  Mr  Bertram 
Dobell   for  a   poem  by  James  Thomson ;  and  to 
the  Earl  of  Crewe  for  poems  by  Lord  Houghton. 


THB  RIVERSIDE  PRESS  LIMITED,  EDINBURGH 


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